Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There were days when silence weighed heavier on Levi.

Heavier than he had ever expected it to be possible in this desolate prison of his own choosing.

Once, silence seemed synonymous with peace and tranquillity.

It was a yearning borne out of years of continuous cacophony that had never fully ceased to assault his eardrums.

A buzz insistently vibrating somewhere at the back of his head—flocks of people at the mess hall, at the training ground or during the chaos of battle; the grating sounds of chewing and slurping; the whoosh of hooks chasing the closest object; the metallic scrape of blades against target—never just his own, but accompanied by others even if behind a door or on the other side of a wall.

Always there. An ever-present melody of comrades at war even when at ease.

Now, the lack of sounds other than nature’s and his own created a sick feeling of disquietude, nothing like his usual vigilance humming just under the skin.

There was—he had found out resignedly—a vivid difference between solitude and loneliness.

He was sure he had chosen the first, yet time seemed adamant on proving him wrong.

Far from a painless realisation for someone like him, who thought he was long used to losing people—one way or another; used to the aching emptiness and whispers of hurt that came with it, and drifted away with the wind, only to come back twice as strong.

He had been granted a chance to free himself from the burdens of his prior life—marked by constant survival rather than genuine living.

He wasn’t deaf to others’ warnings; he had known that any choice was merely a hope to draw an ace from a deck full of jokers.

Still, he believed that any suffering left in his life was better endured in what he once thought to be his long-awaited solitude, rather than in the forced company of others—at least now that he was no longer entirely reliant on it.

These days, the mocking omnipresence of silence was chasing him even in his dreams though.

As if his daily awareness of the absence of another set of steps, the clink of shared utensils, the thrum of conversation—or a laugh—weren’t already triggering a kind of dissociation he hadn’t imagined could take hold of him.

His choices were to be void of regret—at least, that’s what he had once pledged to himself—yet at that moment, he no longer cared about the long-term. Not anymore.

He had consciously deprived that aching body of his of everything nonessential he could name: others’ voices and attention, touch, pleasure… kindness. He wasn’t wise enough—or ready to fully admit to himself—what had driven him to sever the last remaining bonds with others.

There was always more to lose, but given away freely, perhaps he could tell himself it could no longer be taken.

That thought led him to Jaeger—and left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. Any similarity between them brought on a wave of emotion he wasn’t willing to untangle. He’d been left splintered—body and mind—as a side-effect of that young man’s single-minded tenacity to bring them freedom at any cost.

At first, he’d believed Eren had played the martyr’s card. He’d been wrong. Eren himself had never denied being the hero turned villain—willingly. Yet somewhere in the quiet corners of Levi’s mind, doubt lingered—not loudly, not enough to sway his resolve, but enough to unsettle him.

For all his hardened resolve, he couldn’t help but wonder—not whether Eren’s choice had been forced, but how deep one's conviction must run to choose something that would ultimately break them.

It was the kind of conviction that left Levi recoiling at the mere though of it.

He was sure that they had both once believed there was always a choice, however brutal. And Levi had thought Eren's path—destruction, sacrifice, isolation—was selfish, perhaps blinded by rage. But now, with time to dull the noise, he began to consider something else. What if, for Eren, that precise choice had been the breaking point? Not a lapse in principle, but an act so steeped in desperation that it had fractured him entirely.

Precisely because it was against what he had wished for everyone. Only now, ‘everyone’ suddenly meant much more than they had once known or expected—and if you let yourself think about it longer, the word ‘choice’ became somehow void of meaning.

He had not let himself consider that. Not before. He had always caught himself at the moment right before it spiraled into more.

What forced—and still unknown by Levi—weight had Eren been carrying that pushed him into the void?

Understanding that was far more terrifying than condemnation.

It was Levi—ostensibly on the ‘good side’—who had walked the path of martyrdom without realizing. He was the one who had kept pushing, kept giving beyond his mental and physical limits, until he’d run himself so dry that no blood, no tears, no sentiment remained to drain; nothing left to care about at all.

Least of all, himself.

Somber thoughts accompanied him as he sat just outside the door of his cottage. Small, weathered, but stubbornly sturdy and meticulously kept. The kind of place that stood not out of charm, but defiance. It had been tucked into the fringe of the woods. An old place the world had long since forgotten, and that suited Levi just fine. The trees swayed quietly in the evening wind, a sound so constant it had faded into the background hum of his days.

The nearest town was a day’s walk at most. Far enough that no one came uninvited. Close enough, if he ever needed supplies. Not that he often did, so accustomed to surviving on little, shaped by years of living close to the edge of need.

The quiet grind of blade on stone whispered through the trees—rhythmic, almost meditative—as he worked the blade along the whetstone.

It was something to keep his hands busy, to stave off the questions trying to further crawl into the quiet. He didn’t look down. Didn’t need to. The motion was muscle memory, carved into him long ago.

Shadows crept across the ground—his only silent spectators—signalling the slow arrival of night. Soon enough, he wouldn’t see well enough to keep going. His body might recall the movement, but it was no longer as fine-tuned as it had once been. Not as precise. Not as steady.

Still, he kept on going for a while. The whetstone’s rasp, rough and relentless. It sounded like guilt might if it had a voice.

And perhaps it did. Levi wasn’t sure anymore.

Every stroke summoned another thread, unwinding the frayed tapestry of his thoughts until Jaeger’s face emerged again from beneath the layers. That steely resolve. That initially quiet madness.

He breathed through his nose and kept scraping.

The knife shone dully in the dimming light—like conviction, when it isn’t heroic. When it’s just pain that refuses to die quietly. He winced at the sting of that reflection. His hand veered off its steady course, startling him. He’d nearly cut himself in that brief distraction.

It was clearly time to stop, or he’d hurt himself. There was already enough of that to last him a lifetime. Whatever was left of it.

As he stood from the wooden box that had served as a seat—his only actual chairs reserved for indoors—he let himself stretch, easing out of the stillness that had settled into most of his body.

He frowned, but continued the slightly stilted motion until it loosened into something resembling fluidity.

The aches were always there. His other quiet companions. He continued to live with them; his acceptance borne out of reluctant admission of his own partial frailty. Time stopped for no one. Not even an Ackerman. Not after how much he had abused his body, again and again.

As he moved into the house—the door, while old, free of creaks thanks to Levi’s meticulousness—he was not able to free his mind of further retrospection.

He put away the knives and whetstone in their designated spots, then filled the kettle for his nighttime tea ritual.

While he did that, another unbidden but quite familiar thread passed through his restless mind.

He knew well enough that today's date was bound to bring up memories and tug his usually subconscious thought closer to the surface.

His mix of verbena, lavender and lemon balm sounded like exactly what he needed on such a night, so he carefully spooned the right amount to the strainer and placed it in one of his bigger cups, used for more medicinal brews.

As the water boiled and the soothing bubbling rose, Levi recalled what he’d accepted long ago. There was no clear good or evil in the conflict, only different truths, if one was brave enough to see beyond their own bias.

Levi—though it pained him—was honest enough to admit that Eren’s villainy was, in part, of their own making.

He wouldn’t lie to himself. Something had always festered inside the boy.

But they’d asked too much. Demanded. Forced. Over and over, they’d let suffering slide in favor of survival. Never pausing to consider the consequences—the physical agony, the mental corrosion.

How does one stay sane, mutilating himself for a cause?

Losing teeth. Limbs. Tearing skin with his own bite. Over and over.

Blood dripping from exhaustion. Kicked. Cut. Dismembered. His limbs treated like expendable gear—no better than used blades—discarded, repurposed, then asked to bear the weight of their crumbling world.

Yet he kept showing up. Every time. Willing to give more. Lose more. Bearing the name they gave him—Humanity’s Hope—like a sentence, not a title. And as he did, they drew diagrams. Blueprints for mutilation. Instructions for cutting him down and piecing him back together; just so he’d be usable again.

And they called it duty.

Levi had done this.

Hadn’t flinched at the absurdity. Had told himself, told Eren—it was the only way to survive.

What humanity had they shown to this boy? None of it was natural. It was madness. And they all embraced it.

Eren had been a titan. Yes. But outside of that—he was a boy. Then a man. Made from blood and bone as the rest of them.

He regrew what they sliced away without mercy. But how many ever stopped to think that each time—he [i]felt[i] it? Felt every piece lost. Not once. Not dozens. Hundreds of times.

And still, he gave.

While they took. Stole. Ordered. Asked. Sometimes without even saying the words.

They chewed Eren up and spat him out, again and again. Shaped him from ash and screams. Treated him like clay. Soulless, re-molded with every new crisis. They stoked the fire with his body, watched him sizzle, burn. He helped them feed it. And when the flame finally roared high enough to blind them—it exploded. In all their faces.

Eren Jeager had probably killed billions. It made bile rise in Levi’s throat, threatening to spill each time he remembered that. No matter how many times he revisited that he could not condone it. He was certain he never would.

How had they not expected it, though? Had any of them given as much as Jeager had sacrificed without blinking more than twice?

They asked him—Humanity’s Strongest—to pledge himself to salvation. To keep hope on a leash. To cut it down if it ran too far.

And Eren looked at him with trust. Blind, whole-hearted. He followed Levi’s orders—until he didn’t. Until he realized Levi was following a plan he’d already outgrown. One that demanded sacrifice.

They never envisioned just how much Eren could give. At what ultimate cost it would be.

How were they better than him? What moral ground did they have to paint him as the biggest monster after what they had done to him?

Had they not fed him the line of ‘cause justifies the means’ in one way or another, repeatedly?

It made Levi sick, dizzy. For a moment he thought his ears were ringing, until he realized he’d zoned out completely and it was the kettle, whistling sharply, in sync with the churn of his thoughts.

So he sat. Tea steeped as he looked beyond his window, seeing nothing. Steam mingled with his stillness.

This part of the year always felt like a scar resurfacing in a winter cold. Tight and painful. Time dulled nothing. The anniversary marked more than devastation. It marked memory. The kind that didn’t scream, but stayed.

Levi had thought himself an empty shell, stripped of feelings at this stage, while there were still unbidden echoes of a not so distant past haunting him and making him reconstruct the scrupulously pieced together mosaic of his survivor ‘self’ in the aftermath of the ashen apocalypse brought upon them by Eren.

What Levi truly hated were the circumstances—the lacking empathy, setting goals above people and turning a blind eye to hints of instability. And then their common lack of forethought of what they could birth by torturing a young boy and singing him songs of one true cause and the normalcy of war bringing casualties being acceptable.

They had added to the voices in Eren’s head. He didn’t need to hear them directly to feel their weight. Convictions spoken as truth. Encouragement framed as duty. Each promise laced with silence where compassion should've lived.

And Levi, in all his precision, all his grim loyalty, had been one of those voices. Not the loudest. Not the cruelest. But present.

They’d all believed they were navigating a path toward salvation. Yet not once had they really questioned the toll carved into Eren’s soul.

Now, as the kettle quieted and the echoes faded, he let the thought settle. They hadn't created the Rumbling. That was Eren. But which of them could say they had stopped, done something truly selfless to stop it aside from Mikasa?

And in the ledger of history, that silence—that complicity—was inked all the same.

With that grim understanding, the older man forced himself to breathe through it and returned to the mundanity of steeping his tea. If only to hold onto something tangible, something that could anchor him faintly in the present.

Before the water cooled too much, Levi reached for his cup and crossed the room with habitual ease. He settled into one of the two armchairs—stiff-backed, well-worn—the one positioned beside a small table he used solely for tea. The cushion gave slightly beneath his weight. The air was now quiet enough to hear the faint pop of the wood stove.

And sitting there, cradling the warm ceramic in his hands, he thought. He had not become Eren’s final executioner. He didn’t know what that meant. If it meant anything at all.

It was probably futile to wonder what it would have done to him. Sometimes, he still did.

He didn’t need to imagine the weight Mikasa had carried, even though toward the end, what had once been some type of love between them had calcified—first into disbelief laced with hope, then fury, and finally, a quiet acceptance sealed with a flicker of regret.

He had no idea how the young woman was now. And he’d chosen not to witness it.

At this current moment, Levi himself felt mostly… empty. Today had stirred the surface, but it was the exception.

It was the strange kind of emptiness he recognized at the worst times—the contradiction not of stillness or mindless motion, but of living each minute with a weighted gut and sluggish thoughts, without identifying a single feeling.

There was little to be done about it. Not from where he stood.

He had made his decision, and he wasn’t backing out of it. It was hard to believe anything waited for him beyond this quiet corner of nowhere. Anything he truly wanted, or deserved.

And so each day he woke up before the sun—if sleep found him at all—rose to perform the morning stretches that age and injury had made essential, and went about his daily chores.

There were a few small things that adorned his otherwise sparse routine. A good cup of tea, and the care of his horse, kept despite others insisting he trade the creature in for the mechanical convenience of a car. A technology recovered.

Now it was time for one of those modest indulgences. He lifted the cup to his lips, letting steam curl up and fog his vision, and drank—silent, among the torrent of unwanted feelings and reflections.

He had hoped for a few meager hours of sleep that night—a temporary reprieve from the oppressive heaviness of the day.
Cruelty found him even at rest. It always did.

Sleep hadn’t been in the cards. The two hours he got didn’t qualify as anything more than a glorified nap—fitful and fragmented.
An intermittent staccato rhythm wrestled him into full consciousness within seconds, old habits—years in the making—refusing to die quietly.

Whatever had woken him ceased, briefly. Just long enough for Levi to nearly convince himself it was a ghost in his head.

But then it resumed.

His tired mind finally registered it. Knocking. At his door.

Stuttered. Strangely shy. But persistent.

An announcement. A question, really. One he could answer or ignore.

He didn’t move at first.

The knocking didn’t escalate, didn’t break its rhythm. Waited. Like a polite threat.

Levi blinked, slow. The fog of sleep hadn’t fully cleared, and a headache had begun to stake its claim somewhere behind his right eye. The damaged one. It pulsed like an echo of every wound that hadn’t quite healed.

His bedroom was dim—shutters drawn half-heartedly, the weak light pooling like dust in corners. The covers clung to his body with dampness from earlier restlessness.

He sat up, joints arguing with him every inch of the way. No one searching for him should’ve found him here. He’d made that clear. This place was chosen for its solitude, its silence. A deliberate exile. To be sought out despite that… was unsettling.

A stray traveler? Maybe someone lost in the woods, desperate for directions or shelter or water. But what kind of idiot wandered into these parts without a plan?

Or worse—someone feigning desperation, hoping for easy prey. A knife to the gut while he slept, rations stolen, a cruel joke written in blood.

The world still welcomed cruelty like an old friend. He’d seen it too often to hope otherwise.

He moved toward the door, navigating familiar territory in the quiet gloom. Bare feet padded across wooden floorboards, each step whispering through the silence. He still moved with the ingrained grace of someone long-trained to be quiet and fast, but his balance betrayed him now, subtly. The injury lent a stiffness to his gait, a slight tilt, like a shadow clinging to motion.

Out of the bedroom and into the main room, where his small kitchen folded seamlessly into the living space. Everything was sparse. A low table, one chair out of place, a kettle left cooling on the counter.

Even the air felt settled, like it had learned not to rush things.

He passed by the cold iron stove, the window with its long-dead view of trees gripped in fog—one he couldn’t see now, not at this angle, not at night, though he remembered what lay beyond—and the shelf with the cracked cup he used religiously. No signs of disturbance.

But beyond the glass, nothing. No silhouette, no flicker of movement. The door sat more to his right, just beyond his true line of sight, and the injured eye made that space almost blind in the dark. Where daylight gave him vague impressions, night erased even the memory of shape. The world there had become absence.

Still, Levi knew.

Someone was there.

The old instinct hadn’t dulled. It stirred like a blade pulled from rest. Whoever knocked had waited, listened, maybe even watched. And they knew now—he was awake, close, within reach. Just one sliver of wood stood between them. One thin barrier keeping curiosity from revelation, shielding identity from recognition, intentions from judgment. Strength could be met with strength. Weakness with mercy… or malice.

Eyes narrowed. Mouth set.

He reached for the door, but didn’t open it.

How was it that something as trivial as opening a door to another human being carried such dread?

In his search for solace and self-sufficiency, had he been harbouring weakness all along, feeding it without even realizing?

Whoever was out there had stopped knocking—just waited, as Levi considered whether cowardice might be the better path. Turning back, slipping into bed again. Choosing familiar demons over meeting whatever stood in the dark beyond his threshold.

Would silence make them leave? Would they vanish as quickly as they’d come, taking with them an answer Levi wasn’t prepared to hear? An answer that might carry with it new ugliness he hadn’t accounted for.

There was already enough of that. Enough he’d witnessed. Enough he’d caused.

Forgetting the outside world and its endless catalogue of problems—its grief, its noise, the ache people always dragged behind them whether as friends or enemies—that had been his one wish after the war.

Selfish, maybe.

But when had he ever been allowed to think of himself first?

What little he felt entitled to, he had poured into that single decision to retreat. To disappear. To take up silence as sanctuary.
One selfish plea, drifting in an ocean of concerned voices.

A choice to tend to himself—and no one else—for once in his goddamned life.

Was this too being taken from him?

No.

No. It wouldn’t be that easy.

He wouldn’t allow it.

He was more than the symbol they used to follow. More than the myth cobbled together from old battles and broken bones.

He had shed that weight at last.

And one person—stranger or not, well-meaning or not—wouldn’t undo that. Wouldn’t cross the lines he’d carved out for himself, lines made not in sand but stone. Needed. Earned.

Since when had he started thinking in absolutes?

He wasn’t the one who saw the world in black and white. He knew better than most how many shades could exist in between.

These boundaries weren’t decorative. They weren’t soft enough to blur with a knock at his door. He had agency now. The right to turn away anyone he wished, regardless of hour or reason.

All he had to do was speak. Not even reach for blades.

He could listen. He could refuse. He could entertain whatever was asked and walk away the next minute, without shattering the road he'd painstakingly paved with silence and intention.

With that stolen certainty, his hand moved, unlatching the upper bolt, the lower lock. He hadn’t used the key tonight. Too clouded with other thoughts.

One twist of the knob, and Levi faced the unknown like a long-forsaken friend. On his terms.

Or so he thought.

What stood outside hit too close. Too hard.

Composure cracked instantly—whiplash sharp, dragging back phantom memories. Cable reels misfired. Momentum misjudged. The first bruises of flight.

Not a stranger. Not a friend.

A ghost.

It loomed over Levi’s smaller frame like a shadow pulled from hell. Even with distance between them, it felt suffocating.

He didn’t fall. He froze. His body chose the lesser shame. Feet anchored, muscles petrified.

Maybe it was a dream. No—worse. A waking hallucination. A figment scraped from some memorial buried deep in his bones, surfacing early to torment him.

Lucid dreams—he’d heard of them. Eyes wide, mind fractured, frozen in place while the nightmare devoured you inch by inch. He’d seen men gripped by them. But he’d never been touched by that curse himself.

Until now.

It had to be a dream. Had to be.

Any other explanation was madness.

And madness wore this man’s face too convincingly.

Dead. Supposed to be dead. Not hovering at his door like a joke made in poor taste.

Why now?

Revenge? Retribution? Apology? Pity?

Salvation?

Whatever he wanted, Levi didn’t have it. Not anymore.

He had nothing left to give.

Only scraps. Silence. Strength thinned out across years of survival. A loyalty to breath and little else.

Whatever this wraith hoped for wasn’t here. Levi was certain of that. Had to be.

To believe otherwise meant going back to places he’d buried. And he wasn’t digging.

How long had they stood there?

Minutes? Hours? Something older than both.

It would’ve stretched on forever had the specter not torn through the stillness with Levi’s name.

Not whispered. Spoken. Raw.

A banshee’s cry—shrill with grief, thick with memory, laced with something far older than mourning.

A sound that fractured the air. A sound meant for him alone.

A curse. Or a plea.

And beneath it all, the echo of something final—a call that only the dying hear. Death, waiting in the wings. Not cloaked in shadow, but stitched into the fabric of old allegiance. Not faceless, but worn by a boy who once swore freedom, and now moved with ruin at his heels. The wings that did not lift anymore, but descended with finality.

And when the cry faded, only silence remained. Heavy, familiar. The kind that settles not with peace, but with inevitability. He had waited for something to come. Not this, though. Never this.

A year had passed since Levi Ackerman had spoken to someone who wasn’t a merchant or a stranger passing through. Two, probably more, since he’d seen this man.

The dead don’t return. That was the comfort. That was the rule.

But this man never followed the rules.

Not mortal.

Not quite alive.

Eren Jaeger.

A dead man walking.

A nightmare made flesh.

Who he thought he’d held no power over. Not for a long while.

And now here he was, dragged from the depths of whatever hell he'd forged for himself, as if summoned by the stray thought of Levi’s tired mind.

A tragedy, knocking. Unfolding again at his feet.

Standing on Levi’s porch. Nothing between them but breath.

The older man’s instincts had led him to this very door—left exposed to the supposed enemy’s reach—only to mock him with their distant silence. Useless.

No more reliable than the blade hanging limply in his hand; not an assuring extension of potential threat, but a toy snatched by habit in passing.

He stared at the useless steel and felt the word recoil. Reliable. It didn’t belong anymore—not to him. But there had been someone else who had claimed it too fiercely, worn it like a curse.

Eren had become too reliable. Not in the way they had once longed for—someone to hold the line, someone who might’ve helped them live—but in a way that mocked everything they’d fought to preserve. His manic devotion to the cause had eclipsed hope itself. So reliable, so tenacious, that he’d outgrown humanity entirely.

Levi could feel the irony rotting at the edges of his thoughts, sharp as the blade he no longer trusted to be reliable. His limbs—once precise, absolute—shuddered uselessly. That blade, the one he’d wielded like an extension of instinct, of command—it hung now like dead weight.

And Eren…Eren was still coming back. Always. Even death couldn't cling to him.

He clawed his way back from nothing, again and again.

There was no final breath, no conclusive silence. Every time Levi thought the earth had swallowed him for good, he emerged—like the old gods refusing to fade, like a weed that no fire could consume. A perversion of reliability. Everpresent. Stronger than any of them, and too stubborn to vanish.

How could they have believed he could be defeated? Not even Eren himself had the power to end it. He had tried—Levi had seen it in the haunted vacancy of his gaze, felt it in the echo of that final act—but even then, something deeper dragged him back.

Levi thought, almost bitterly, maybe they were still bound by something.

Not ideals, not purpose—just the inability to rest. Maybe that was the final connection. The one thing they hadn’t chosen but shared for so long in silence. The denial of rest. Maybe neither had earned peace. Neither would be allowed to stay buried. To be allowed to have what they truly wanted.

It was too much for Levi to digest and not have it rot in his guts like a disgraceful victory of a sick type of camaraderie bestowed upon them both; linking him to Eren. Corrupted beyond recognition but still something they had shamefully… yearned for. Once rejected—never fully forgotten.

Levi was not sure what to make of this impossible encounter—stripped of any vestiges of authority and fortitude as he was—knife notwithstanding.

His grip tightened faintly on the wooden handle of the dagger, though it no longer offered comfort or certainty. His throat felt dry, mind still scraping at the edges of disbelief. But the specter before him hadn’t vanished. And Levi, lost but forced to regroup, steadied himself with the only thing he had left. A voice.

“Why?” he asked dully. Less a question, more a wound.

Not How. Because details didn’t matter—not in this fragile sliver of time stretched like wire between them.

Why was it Eren who got to come back? Why was it Levi Eren had come to agonize with his tainted presence? Why now? Why ever? Why only now—after the point of no return—when he could no longer be what Levi had once been to him, and Eren to Levi? Forcefully unexplored, but always on the fringe of shifting into something more.

Maybe Eren could outrun death. But whatever magic he carried didn’t extend to Levi.

There was no turning back. No reclaiming the chain that had linked them—corroded beyond repair.

The how was left unspoken. Floating, pulsing in Levi’s throbbing skull.

How could you do what you’d done and still show your face at my doorstep? How could you remind me? How could you let us all believe you were saving us? How could you make me remember I hadn’t seen it coming—when you traded your own hope for freedom for the memories of the dead to guide your destruction?

How could you…?

The silence stretched, taut and razor-thin. Levi’s breath didn’t shift, but something beneath his sternum did—the ache of memory too heavy to call back, lodged too deep to cast aside.

And then, Eren spoke. Not loud. Not sure. The words felt pried from a rusted cage inside his chest.

“I… shouldn’t have come.”

The voice was thinner than Levi remembered. Not weaker. Not younger. Just used differently—worn down by truths they had not been allowed to bury.

Eren said no more at first. As if the door Levi hadn’t opened, the cold he hadn’t challenged, and the wound he hadn’t shown had all spoken louder than anything Eren could offer back.

What Levi felt was not forgiveness. Not anger. Just that flicker—unwelcome, undeniable—of the flame Eren still carried. That fragile thing Levi had once called hope.

And Levi didn’t understand, how now, of all times, that flame was rekindled in him.

Hope should have long abandoned Eren. And yet, here he was, standing at Levi’s door, drawn by that faintly resurrected hope. Fragile and newborn as it was, it had stirred just enough in him to make this moment possible.

“Yes, you shouldn’t,” Levi said simply. “But here you are.”

He cut through the tension with words that felt scraped from rusted joints, the tendons in his neck resisting each syllable.

“So I ask you again, Eren Jaeger… why?”

He didn’t expect an answer. Not really. Not with the torn look hollowing the other man’s face. But the question came anyway—compelled out of him, a demand Levi didn’t know how to bury.

“I thought that maybe… you,” the younger man began, then veered off—his jaw snapping shut so forcefully that his teeth ground around the half-formed sentence like a guillotine. That, and the sudden widening of his eyes, told Levi more than it should have—despite the years that had fogged over memories of the time they spent learning each other.

Jaeger’s face had once been an open book. One Levi and those around them could read from cover to cover, guessing the contents of each page from the first line alone.

But over time, some of the writing began to fade—erased by too many curious, demanding hands; pages loosened and disappeared. The book rewrote itself too, as if unsure what story it wanted to tell—one of deception, or raw honesty.

Or maybe they’d simply forgotten how to read. Got out of practice.

Whatever the reason, Levi could see it now—clear as a wound splitting open. The control slipping, and Eren’s face revealing the very things he’d meant to conceal.

If not secrets—then feelings. And in their world, wasn’t that even worse?

Unless this was manipulation in a new form. Too many possibilities. None of them good.

Levi knew, all at once—and not quite at all—what lived at the end of that unfinished line. His heart ached both for himself and for Jaeger, or maybe for the sheer unfairness of honesty turned burden.

Good. He didn’t want to hear it either way.

There was a time when Levi would have acknowledged the underlying meaning with a curt nod—a voiceless kind of understanding shared between friends or easy companions.

No need to say, it would have offered. I know. I see you. I feel it too. But we are both bound to things greater than this. Take solace in knowing. It’s what I can offer.

One a privilege—lost. The other, a gift returned.

“Whatever you thought, you thought wrong,” Levi finally said, his head shifting subtly to the left. Not in defiance.

A mute message. I no longer see you.

A sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door was confirmation enough of what Jaeger had read in that single gesture.

“You chose to be a ghost,” Levi continued, voice firm with finality, “so have the decency to stay one.”

This farce of a meeting belonged with the rest of the dead. Buried. Forgotten.

He didn’t move or speak again. He was done.

Whether Jaeger understood that—or whether his courage fled at the lack of even the smallest sign of welcome or relief at his survival—it was enough. Levi heard the shift. A body repositioned. A retreat.

One step. Then two. Then three.

In the whisper of fabric brushing fabric, and the crunch of leaves beneath boots, Levi barely heard him go.

But he knew.

He didn’t turn his head back until he was sure.

He didn’t want to see.

He stood in the hollow absence Eren had left behind. The air hadn’t shifted; the shadows clung to their corners as if nothing had happened. But Levi knew better. The silence was changed. It now tasted like breath held too long.

He didn’t move for a while. Didn’t so much as blink, letting the parting moment settle into his limbs like cold. It bloomed inside his chest, slow and unpleasant, and then sat there—as if the goodbye was unfinished even though no more words would be spoken.

Then, with neither ceremony nor urgency, Levi stepped forward and reached for the door. He closed it quietly, the final click of the latch sharp in the stillness. He set the bolt—top, bottom—and paused a beat longer than necessary. Then his hand dropped down to the old iron key and slid it into place, turning it with the deliberate weight of finality. A gesture not for protection, but for distance. For absence. A message. Stay out.

He turned toward the hallway and took two measured steps before something hooked through his right leg—a sharp, violent nerve scream, ripping down from hip to ankle. The pain caught him mid-stride, and his thigh trembled against the warning. He didn’t fall. Not quite. But it took all the discipline he'd spent a lifetime curating to remain standing. Teeth clenched. Fingers twitching. A sharp pull of air into his lungs—tight and barely disguised. He waited for the pain to recede, muscles locked in silent resistance, before coaxing his body forward again.

In the kitchen, Levi moved past the edge of the counter and, with careful intent, set the knife down near the stove. His fingers didn’t want to release it. He realized then how tightly he'd gripped it; his hand reluctant to unfurl. He watched the blade settle on the wood, then turned his palm over and traced the imprint on his skin. Ridged and angry, a temporary scar from old reflexes.

He snorted. Loud. The sound cracked out of him like something bitter and involuntary—a fragment of cynicism slipped into the air. Ridiculous. That it had come to this. That even now, after everything, after him, Levi could feel anything at all.

He rolled his shoulders back, slow and methodical, easing the tension one joint at a time. Then he tilted his neck side to side, vertebrae whispering against each other in complaint. A sigh pushed through his chest—not relief, not quite—just the natural progression of pressure escaping its container.

Tea. That was the ritual. When adrenaline made sleep impossible, when silence became a room too sharp to stand inside. He reached for the cupboard and began to search—strong, dark leaves, something with enough bitterness to keep him grounded.

But halfway through sifting the old sachets, his gaze caught on a familiar packet. One he hadn’t touched in years. A blend he'd shared with Eren once, long before things had frayed beyond repair. The air shot out of Levi’s mouth—not laughter, exactly, but something coarse and humorless. A breath laden with disbelief.

He slammed the cupboard door shut with a force that carried across the kitchen. Wood against wood—sharp, abrupt, a reverberation like a shout. A refusal to engage. A denial of memory. Tea forgotten.

Levi lowered his head, shoulders hunching slightly. He braced both palms against the edge of the counter—wood biting into skin—and held. He squeezed. Released. Took one deep breath and then another, trying to coax his body into surrender.

But the surrender didn’t come.

Instead, his fist curled and struck the counter, hard and hollow, knuckles colliding with the surface in a sound that pulsed straight up to his jaw. Pain lanced from wrist to shoulder, whined up into his temple. A noise—half breath, half groan—caught in his throat, escaping before he could clamp down.

It surprised him. He flinched from it like it didn’t belong to him. No one had seen, and yet Levi’s eyes widened slightly—as if even he hadn’t expected the fault line to crack.

No tears. No words. But something had been shaken loose.

And still, he didn’t want to see.

To see was to acknowledge. And to acknowledge meant opening something Levi had no interest in seeing breached. What floodgates could that open?

There was no one to turn to in this reawakened grief. No one to absorb the rediscovered anger that pushed and pulled at the frayed edges of his mind. A mind that hadn’t settled in years and showed no signs of ever doing so.

Levi was tired. So profoundly tired. All he’d ever wanted was rest—but bolting the door, locking it behind Eren, hadn’t brought any. It hadn’t dulled the ache. The lock didn’t reach far enough to keep his thoughts out.

The restlessness refused containment.

Muscles seized and then betrayed him—tightened into release, an uncontrolled spasm wracking through his frame until it shook him where he stood. His breath slipped out quick and shallow. A tremble took hold. Not delicate. Real—like a spooked animal instinctively shaking off the stress of a life-threatening chase, his body trying to bleed adrenaline the only way it knew how.

“Huh…?” The sound caught in the air, barely a whisper—less a word than a noise offered to the empty room. To his body. To whatever silent gods refused to answer.

“Shit,” he muttered, breath broken and failing—no longer able to rein in any of it. It was happening and it would not be stopped.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck you, Jaeger. Fuck you for dying and fuck you for coming back when no one asked. I didn’t want this… I don’t want this, so why—why the hell now?”

The curses fell out unformed, half-choked, jagged things. Like teeth spat out during a fight.

This wasn’t right. None of it.

Nothing ever was, and still he remained. Still he paid the price like a lonely fool caught in a debt he hadn’t asked to incur. He was sick of it all. Sick of surviving when survival felt like punishment. No matter what he did, it changed nothing.

But this—this one thing—he had gotten right.

Turning Eren away. Like the plague. Like a disease you learn too late not to touch.

So why did it feel so wrong?

Why was his body falling apart in the aftermath? Was it the mere act of seeing Eren, knowing he stood in the world again like he had any right to be? Or was Levi now suffering for the banishment he’d delivered, cut too deeply into both of them?

Which sin was he bleeding for?

Was he longing to kill the enemy… or mourning the miracle?

The contradiction rattled in his bones, made his footing unsure, breath catching in his throat like glass.

It took everything—everything—for Levi to lurch toward the nearest armchair. His knees gave a warning shot as he reached it, and he let himself slump into the seat with unbalanced weight. The whole thing creaked, shifted under him, then stilled.

He hadn’t fallen. Not fully.

A mercy, Levi thought bitterly. A quiet, stupid mercy. The universe granting him the smallest sliver of dignity. For now.

He sat there for what felt like hours, until his body wore itself out further and the shivering settled into intermittent shudders, then to a random spasm every few minutes. He didn’t bother to stop it anymore. He understood there was no point.

The body needed what it needed.

The way out was to bear the suffering in silence, accept it, and move on. Not a new concept for someone like Levi—just unwelcome. It had been a while since he’d had to surrender this completely to his body’s fragility without warning. There usually was one, nowadays.

This had caught him softened and unguarded after months of chosen isolation. Unprepared for a challenge in the form of another human being.

If Jaeger even counted as one. Who knew at this stage. He could be anything. Still a monster, or a god, or some unholy mess between the two.

Levi’s thoughts drifted as the emotional high faded. Nothing specific, nothing graspable. He ran a fatigued hand through his damp hair. It felt unpleasant against his skin.

That made him take stock of his body again. More cold sweat. His nightshirt clung to his chest and stomach in patches. Feet like icicles—but then, they were rarely warm to begin with. So nothing worth noting. Joints and muscles stiff, knuckles of one hand bruised. Tendons flared even with small movements. Could have been worse. No blood. No breaks.

Worse for wear. Temporarily. Overall—alive. Little relief.

They hadn’t even touched, and Levi was already counting injuries. Still getting hurt because of Eren or for him. Semantics. The result was the same. A couple of idiots, they were. Eren and him. Always hurting.

Answers still slipped past Levi like they always did. He’d always found them in someone else, and he had no answer now for what came next.

Maybe nothing. He’d passed the hysterics. He’d go back to his everyday, boring life, as if he’d hallucinated the last few hours.

Shell shock, Hanji had called it once. Soldiers reliving trauma. Something from across the sea, where guns made that kind of memory more common.

Was that what had happened to him tonight? Was this trauma? Was Eren supposed to be the nightmare?

What a load of bullshit. There were worse things than seeing a ghost. Dead or alive.

He was out there. Somewhere. Eren Jaeger. Fine. Okay.

He’d been there before everything fell apart, then vanished, then returned. It was one instance in a pattern. A known rhythm.

More anomaly to think he’d actually died than anything else, Levi told himself. And anyway, he wasn’t Levi’s problem.

Eren was no savior. Not for anyone. And Levi sure as hell wasn’t being his.

Whatever was going to happen would also be water under the bridge one day. That was the mantra—grudging, tired, but good enough. Good enough to keep from spiraling further.

With water came cleansing. The thought shifted Levi’s focus from the fractured world beyond his walls—and wherever Jaeger now haunted it—and brought him back to his own needs. His own body. His own breath.

Nothing was going to stop him from getting that stale feeling off his skin. Exhausted or not. He’d earned that much.

There was no room for ghosts under the shower—just Levi and his soaps and whatever brush would help him feel clean again. That was the only kind of comfort he still trusted.

He stood with effort, legs slightly shaky but obedient this time. He navigated the quiet path from the living room to the small tiled bathroom, muscle memory guiding each step. The wooden floor beneath him creaked once. Familiar. Unthreatening. His feet knew where to land.

He reached for the towel first—soft cotton, dry and waiting on the rack. Pulled open the cabinet with practiced precision, fingers grazing past old tins and folded cloth to retrieve a bar of cedar soap and the stiff-handled scrub brush he’d used for years. Nothing ceremonial. Just survival, packaged neatly.

The bathroom smelled faintly of the evening—steam from old showers, the ghost of liniment from the drawer. He set everything down with quiet efficiency, flipped the faucet, and adjusted the knob. Water rushed from the pipe in a gurgling roar before evening into a steady, warm stream.

Clothes came off in brisk motions. The nightshirt clung damply to his torso, peeling away from cold sweat patches. His fingers caught the hem and yanked—none too gently. He stepped over the tub edge and into the flow.

Heat hit him square in the chest, and something loosened in his back as droplets slid along his spine. He pressed his palms flat against the tiled wall, exhaled once, and tilted his head forward into the spray. The tension curled inward. Not gone, but silenced. Temporarily.

Water traced the edges of old scars—some faded, others stubborn. His shoulder twitched at one; the knuckles throbbed again beneath the shower stream. His bruised hand pulsed dully. Still his, though. This body had betrayed him briefly, but never fully. It still carried him. Still held him up. He could forgive that.

The brush rasped over his skin, soap lathering into bitter cedar foam. He scrubbed methodically—neck, arms, chest, thighs—until his skin flushed red from heat and pressure. The grime, the sweat, the remnants of everything that clung too long—all of it dissolved beneath him and ran in pale swirls toward the drain.

The worst of his dread went down with it.

He took longer than usual. It was fine. Needed.

Not miracles, but the water had done its job. Levi stepped carefully out of the tub, letting one foot settle onto the rough shower mat. The texture met the arch of his foot—coarse, familiar, grounding. He stood there a moment, feeling the difference between steam behind him and the cool fog that draped the rest of the bathroom like a curtain. The silence let it spread evenly.

He reached for the towel draped over the rack and began to dry himself with the same precision he’d used minutes earlier. One side, then the other. Chest. Back. Legs. The cloth rasped across skin still flushed from heat, soft in its friction. It felt like something deserved. Something earned.

A slow, measured breath followed. His ribs expanded under the pressure of it—nothing sharp, nothing pulled. Just air, taken in and released. Obeying.

He moved across the mat to the wooden floor with bare feet, noting the cooler temperature beneath his toes. A minor shock, followed by quick acclimation. He hung the towel back where it belonged, and stepped toward the sink.

The toothbrush waited exactly where it always did, standing at its angle in the ceramic cup—unchanged. He opened the faucet and dampened it, then brushed with methodical strokes. The mint bloomed across his tongue—bright, biting—clearing his mouth of its bitterness. It helped.

When he looked up, the mirror offered his face back to him. Levi blinked, almost surprised by the reflection. The encounter had made him feel adrift, suspended. But the eyes staring back were his own. Scars and all. He took another breath, deeper this time, closing his eyes briefly before reopening them with a little more certainty.

From collarbones up, he catalogued. Pale skin, pinked with residual heat. A hint of sallowness beneath that. The usual bags under his eyes. Left side—untouched, still carrying traces of youth. Right side—older, marked. The long scar cutting through the temple. The eye that no longer saw.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t dwell. There was distance, but not dread. A flicker of thought—how he must have looked to Jaeger, the years worn along his face in quiet declarations. A few grey hairs where black had once held the line.

But Levi dismissed it before it coiled too far. He opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved the tin of salve for his hand. Set it down beside the sink. Spat the toothpaste out, rinsed, and watched the foam circle the drain taking the stray thought with it.

He rinsed his face next, palms sliding over skin still smooth, almost no stubble despite the years. The water tugged at his fringe, damp strands clinging to his forehead until he brushed them back. One droplet fell onto his lips, and he became aware of how dry his throat felt. Thirst. Acute.

He turned toward the wooden stool and reached for the change of clothes he'd expected to find—shirt, pants, underwear. All usually folded neatly. But his fingers met nothing. Just bare wood, undressed like him. He paused a beat. Registered it. Then moved on without comment. No matter.

His eyes flicked to the small east-facing window nestled between the tub and sink. The faint light of day had begun to creep across the sky—sunrise maybe an hour off.

He moved toward the door and stopped, hand on the handle. Naked. No sound outside. Still locked. But something about the pause lingered.

Then he turned it, stepped through. No towel. His space. His air. His rules.

Steam followed him out, cedar scent trailing into the main room as his body crossed back over the threshold. His eyes flicked toward the entry door—bolts in place, key unmoved. Still secure.

He passed through, entered the bedroom. The nightmare’s origin. He registered that, didn’t linger. Let it go.

Clothes laid out. A clean shirt—one of his favorites, though he never said so. The stitching held its shape. He dressed piece by piece. Shirt over shoulders. Pants up along hips. Fingers threading buttons into place. Each motion a restoration. One step, then the next.

Socks last. He chose the softer pair. Comfort. Not consciously. Just a quieter kind of armor.

Seated on the bed, he scanned the room. His gaze paused briefly at the drawer. No motion to reach it. No cravat today.

He didn’t need it.

The day would begin as they always did. Clean. Ready. And not looking back.

Chapter Text

That day, going through the motions felt like a much-needed balm.

The first order of things was feeding the animals and the related upkeep—food, water, cleaning, picking up the few eggs laid.
There was no hesitation this time when he opened the door.

The outside world greeted Levi with a delicate sigh of morning breeze—a pleasant caress against exposed skin. Leaves rustled and swayed in the nearby trees, joined in their melodic susurrus by the sun-bleached grass edging the property and stretching into the woods that enclosed the horizon. The sky above was beginning to lighten in layered hues of sunrise.

Levi’s gaze drifted instinctively toward the perimeter. The tree line showed no movement, no signs of human presence. The faint path at the forest’s edge—still empty.

Alone, then. The way he preferred it.

He turned toward the chicken coop and paused.

Faint footprints marked the dirt where the cobbled path ended. Barely visible, but there. Bigger than his. Differently shaped.
Eren’s.

Proof.

He hadn’t imagined it. Not all of it, anyway.

He stared at that patch of ground a moment too long, then lifted his gaze slowly to the sky. There was relief in confirming his sanity had not betrayed him. A truth, clean and unpleasant.

Though part of him suspected that a delirious vision might’ve been easier to swallow.

A sharp bleat from his two goats, already roused and impatient for food, pulled him out of the trance before it could fully settle. The chickens, stirred by the noise, joined in with their own clucks and scrapes, demanding Levi hurry up.

The familiar din of his animals filled the quiet with life. Movement flurried around his legs as he worked—scattering feed, tossing edible weeds, changing their water.

Simple. Wordless. Routine.

One-minded purpose.

The chickens and goats were satisfied, voices dimming into content. Levi left them to their devices. The rustle of feed underfoot. The sound of hooves on packed dirt. Their little kingdom, simple and whole. He stepped away with no backward glance, and the animals didn’t ask for one.

His feet carried him down the gentle slope toward the barn turned stable. Small by design. Large enough for three, maybe four horses, no more. He had no plans for guests. No permanent company beyond the creatures already under his care. The building stood solid, time-worn, its timbers bleached where the sun had kissed them for years.

Now, it housed only one.

His mare.

After the war—after everything—he’d had to change what kind of horse he could live with. Or what kind could live with him. He didn’t need force or great speed anymore. Just endurance. Calm. And a body not too demanding. He chose her knowing what he could handle, and what he owed. Another adjustment carved from old pain.

She knew he was coming before he reached her. A sharp snort echoed from inside, deep and rhythmic like the rumble of shifting ground. Her hooves clacked in anticipation, a small metal song striking the packed stable floor. By the time he reached the stall, her head was already poking out—large, warm eyes finding him with the steadiness only animals seemed to master. She nodded once, the movement nearly human, then nudged at his hair. Testing. Familiar.

Levi raised a hand, fingers brushing her long snout, sliding up between her eyes where the short hairs darkened. A soft muzzle met his skin without resistance. He let the touch linger—gentle pressure, nothing more. She was alert, still. Ears pricked forward. Mouth closed. Nostrils flexing.

“Overdid the cedar?” he thought, the scent still wafting from his wrist, now mingled with hay.

She offered a nicker. Low, firm. A gift.

His muscles eased again. This was easy. This he knew.

But affection wasn’t all that needed tending. Levi moved through her space with quiet purpose. Hay topped off. Feed measured and poured. A shovel dragged across stone and dirt, the scent of manure rising and mixing with the earth, with the pungent musk of horsehide. Familiar notes, none unpleasant. Like breathing rural time.

It wasn’t brushing hour. He kept to the routine. But he left a carrot by the trough—orange and sweet, his makeshift farewell. She’d crunch it later. He didn’t wait.

Levi turned toward his own sustenance. Something simple. Something grounded. Oatmeal, he thought—dense and reliable. An apple. A handful of nuts. A spoonful of dark buckwheat honey, thick and smoky. Nutrient tucked in indulgence. Balance.

Stepping out of the barn, his gaze dropped to the bruises on his hand. Forgotten, until now. Dull red turning purple beneath the skin. The image of the untouched salve on the bathroom sink emerged vividly in his mind. So obvious. Yet so easily passed over. That figured.
Another neglected step meant for himself. Not surprising. Still fixable.

He walked back toward the house, boots striking a steady rhythm between buildings. The front yard greeted him with its patches of wildflower, planted for bees, not beauty. Pollinators—not poets. Good purpose. His eyes passed over the porch—looser planks needing attention. One more thing to fix before it gave beneath him.

His gaze landed on the fence and the wicket, painted dark green years ago. Faded now. Some slats needed securing. A task for the week. The kind he didn’t mind tackling—tactile, solvable.

And then he saw it.

A shift.

The woods, still. Breeze gone. The sway stalled into silence. But something flickered between trees—not green, not brown. Not part of the landscape.

His breath stalled mid-draw. Eyes widened. Body braced.

For what, he didn’t know.

Nothing emerged.

A moment passed and he eased back, breath slowly trickling in again. Alertness waned. Too sensitive, maybe. But as he turned, ready to put it behind him and focus on breakfast—oatmeal, honey, something sweet—the shape came again.

Unmistakable.

A silhouette.

Tall. Human. Uncertain. Not threatening, but not welcome either.

A nightmare turned daydream?

His body responded before thought caught up. Stance widened. Weight shifted. Arms half-lifted. Reflex positioning—not readiness, but instinct.

Then he stopped. Really stopped.

There was no war here. No real enemy.

Just a man.

Lost. Lonely. Searching.

It wasn’t worth it. Not again. Not dragging himself through that same torment. The poison hadn’t pushed the world away. It had summoned it back. A strange addiction—invited.

His last words hadn’t been final. But talking had never solved much anyway.

Fine.

If this was the way of things. Then this was the way.

He could take it. He would.

Levi stood quietly on his land as the breeze returned—soft, rippling the trees behind Eren’s silhouette like a curtain drawn wide.
He was ready to face the world.

Eren was back.

There was no outrunning it. No force strong enough to chase the man back into whatever grave he had crawled from. Levi knew that now.
If Jaeger had something to say, he’d say it.

Levi would hear it. And that would be that.

His steps were deliberate as he moved toward the gate. The old knob, worn smooth by weather and years, sat firm beneath his hand. He held it steady—not with aggression, not with fear. His spine lengthened, chin set neutral, gaze clear. Composed. Grounded.

He lifted his eyes toward the tree line, narrowed them at the silhouette only half-hidden among trunks and shade. Jaeger’s shape lingered where dirt met moss, barely perceptible. But Levi looked directly.

I see you. This is my land. You don’t get to hide here.

Then he opened the gate. A swift pull, efficient, without flare. He left it open behind him. A door ajar and nothing else.

He turned and walked toward the house—his back to the fence, to the forest. Not dramatic. Simply forward.

Up to the porch he went, steps muted against wood. He paused at the entrance, hand briefly hovering over the handle. Then pressed. The door opened on a quiet hinge, and he didn’t shut it fully behind him. Just enough to leave a crack.

A sign. His own kind.

Inside, the air shifted around him. The scent of his sanctuary—clean linen, smoked wood, cedar still lingering from his morning shower, a wisp of tea leaves left in the space. Levi breathed it in. A pulse steadied.

He crossed to the kitchen and stoked the wood stove, adding two fresh pieces to the embers, nudging them with practiced movements. The soft crackle of flame met the dry kindling and took hold slowly, steadily, in its own choreography. He reached for the kettle, filled it, set it atop the iron ring above the firebox. Watched as the heat began its quiet climb.

At the cupboard, his fingers hesitated just once. He opened it and there it was.

That blend.

The exact one he’d seen earlier. The one he hadn’t touched in years. It stared back at him like it had always known.
The corner of his mouth twitched—a private, ironic recognition. Of course.

Seemed fitting, given the occasion.

He took it out, measured the leaves with clean precision, and turned to retrieve the cups. Two of them, not one. The matching pair. One dark blue, the other pale. Sky and sea. Old meanings, reawakened.

Two spoons followed.

No tremor in his hands.

Water simmered. Not boiling yet, but nearly. He prepared without haste, without distraction, and poured when ready—steam rising in quiet curls, scent unfurling through the room.

His breath moved evenly in his chest.

He moved to the small kitchen table, two paces from the stove. Placed each cup on either side—in front of opposing chairs, not the ones adjacent. Too close. Too familiar. Levi pulled one of the simple wooden seats back, sat down, and waited.

The cup had cooled by the time the door creaked—Eren, halfway inside, hesitating as if testing whether Levi might throw him back out again.

He didn’t.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Levi muttered, not turning. The steam was gone, but he drank anyway. Bitter. Fitting.

Eren’s footsteps were slow, uneven. No bravado. No force. Just that clumsy, hulking presence Levi had long trained himself to anticipate.
He stepped farther in, pausing just inside the threshold—eyes scanning the small room, taking in the second cup, the seat left waiting. His gaze flickered briefly to Levi, then downward.

His boots were caked—forest residue, dried and cracking in places. No rain for days. Levi knew that. Old mud.

Eren hesitated, then bent wordlessly to remove them, leaving them neatly by the door. No clatter. No drag. A gesture so minor, so specific, Levi’s eyebrow twitched in acknowledgment. He hadn’t asked. Hadn’t needed to. And yet, Eren had remembered.

Years. Still, he remembered the floors.

Levi didn’t turn away, even when Eren caught him watching. He held his gaze—level, unreadable.

Eren looked away first.

Then he moved. A slow approach, not to the empty chair but to the counter nearby—the one diagonally offset to Levi’s left, just past the corner cupboards that wrapped rightward from the stove. He leaned there, elbow settling against the edge, posture forcefully loose. Closer now. Visible now.

“I’m not sure why I came,” Eren said, and that honesty scraped Levi raw in a way he didn’t expect. “I guess I hoped…”

Levi scoffed. “Hoped for what, brat? Redemption by proximity?”

“No,” Eren replied, softer now. “Just… a moment.”

A silence stretched between them—dense, but not suffocating this time. Levi let it settle. Let it breathe.

“You’re late,” he said finally. “If it’s closure you’re chasing.”

Eren’s gaze dropped to the table. The untouched cup. The steam long gone.

“I’m not chasing anything,” he murmured. “Maybe just trying not to forget.”

“Not closure,” he continued. “Maybe just to remember that something else existed. Something not soaked in blood or guilt.”

Levi blinked slowly. “Sentimental shit.”

“Yeah,” Eren said, smiling faintly. “Sorry.”

Another pause. Levi could feel the shift like a tremor in his ribs—unspoken things curling around the edges of the moment. Not forgiveness. Not apology. Just space. That rare thing.

“As if that’s something to be sorry for,” Levi said eventually. “You’ve already said it. May as well own up to it.”

Eren nodded, without remark.

The air changed then. Slightly. The walls didn’t cave in. The ache didn’t evaporate. But something unnameable softened between the angles of their shoulders, the curve of their words.

Levi didn’t ask what Eren wanted. Didn’t want to.

Eren visibly hesitated at the undercurrent of challenge in the seemingly simple statement. His mouth trembled slightly—opened, shut, then opened again in short, uncertain turns. His head tilted forward. A matted fringe—long, too long, curling at the edges—slipped into view and masked his eyes.

Levi’s forehead drew in almost imperceptibly. No. He didn’t get to hide behind a curtain, however slight. Not here. Not now. He chose to come. Chose to be here of his own accord. Chose to invade Levi’s quiet and stir it.

Familial stranger.

“Look at me,” Levi objected, voice dispassionate. “You will look at me. If it’s easy you’re after, you can walk out instead,” he added. A challenge now. Open. Almost mocking.

Eren’s head snapped back up, closing in on Levi’s gaze. Eyes wide. Expressive. Frightened. Honest this time. Too honest.

“N-no,” he croaked. “It’s not because… I know you’re not. Never…” The words stumbled—pushed out in haste, desperate to be heard. Some of the old fire lapped at the edges of them, half-choked. “Never for me,” he finished, stunned by the admission. His face curled inward. His breath left him all at once.

It felt as though Levi exhaled with him—air gone from his lungs in tandem. He caught himself from shifting. Not from discomfort in the chair, but the weight of those words.

If he were a weaker man, a kinder man, he might have caved right there and then.

But kindness was not his strength. And warmth was not something he owed.

Easy or not, he wouldn’t give Eren that ease. He wouldn’t cave.

Not yet, his mind echoed faintly. Not ever, he corrected with force. Shut it down before it opened.

As if it mattered what that first stray thought betrayed.

“If not redemption or closure, or easy,” Levi asked, flat. “Then what?”

The scorn filtered through, despite how carefully he'd kept his tone level.

Eren didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched Levi’s—slow, deliberate, almost plaintive. Not pleading. Offering. You said to look. So he did. Even if it hurt. Even if it would tell Levi more than Eren knew how to explain.

Levi met that stare without flinching.

Their gazes held. Longer than expected.

And when Levi didn’t look away, didn’t grant him even the mercy of deflection—something shifted in Eren’s body. His leg twitched forward, subtle, a fractional lean. He looked like he might move. Might step closer. Might bridge the space the words hadn’t crossed.

But he caught himself. Settled again. Stayed in the small corner Levi had afforded him. Away, for now.

It was a small motion. But Levi felt it like a whisper against scarred skin.

His mind pulled back, uninvited, years ago. Before rupture. Before Marley. Before everything spiraled beneath their feet. A time not easy, but easier. When honesty wasn’t a surprise or a weapon, but an occasional guest between them.

Evenings, mostly.

Tea cooling in mismatched cups. Some quiet, some too full of noise from the others to count. Conversation thin, but understanding thick. A glance that lasted. A cup passed too gently. Fingers grazing in the handover. Words halved, questions swallowed. Small things that never quite reached articulation but lived in shared corners.

He remembered how it built—not fast, not sudden. A twitch of the mouth. A nod that landed sharper than speech. A small gift exchanged under the guise of duty, but too well chosen to be impersonal.

And then, later—after respect was earned, trust firm—the tension began to hum. Contained, but louder. Directed. Made known in the silence, if nowhere else. Not indulgent. Not breached. Just there. Threading the edges.

It had always tread the line. It still did.

This movement from Eren—his reach, his restraint—it stirred that avalanche Levi had buried in the deepest recess he could find. Forgotten, but not erased.

His instincts remembered. Before thought could shape it. Before permission was ever given.

He didn’t dwell. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t speak it aloud.

But something inside him shifted. Not forward. Not back. Just slightly. Enough to tilt the moment off its axis.

Eren exhaled. Not from relief. Not from fear. Something in between—recognition, maybe. The sigh sounded like remembering. And with it came the truth. So that’s why it hurt so much. He caught that shift in Levi. He knew what it meant.

A pause gathered in his chest. He let it sit there. Heavy. Honest.

Then, haltingly, he started to speak.

“I know it’s not easy,” he said. “I knew that before coming here. You were right.”

A step backward might have seemed easier. He didn’t take it.

“It’s the hardest. That’s exactly why I came.”

His voice cracked on that word. Hardest. Hands flexed—restless. Held back from the table, unsure where to go.

“I chose the path I did and walked it fully. I stripped everything from myself. I can’t erase any of it now. I’m not even sure I should.”

His eyes flicked across the room—his cup, untouched. Levi’s, half-drunk. The silence, unbroken. Space still held.

“So I’m here… and I don’t know how. Why.” His breath hitched. “I was gone. I was—supposed to stay gone.”

Something in him tilted forward again. A movement almost imperceptible, but Levi caught it. Saw the weight behind it.

Eren closed his eyes for a moment. Steadying. Then opened them and spoke faster now, the tempo rising. “I couldn’t kill myself… again. I—tried. And it failed. And then I couldn’t. Again.”

That trembled. The words fumbled and fell, like he couldn’t keep them inside anymore.

Levi’s jaw tensed. Not a twitch. A lock.

He didn’t speak.

But the breath he drew next wasn’t quiet. Eren noticed.

Still, he pressed on.

“Somehow, finding you was easy. Not because you made it so, but as if something… something wanted me to.”

His hands curled tighter. Not clenched. Grasping.

“I would give you all the whys and hows if I had them,” he said. “If they existed.”

He turned slightly, body shifting to face Levi more fully—but still didn’t approach. Didn’t touch.

“If there’s anything I’m after,” Eren said, voice low now, steady, unshaped by performance, “Maybe it’s… that moment.”

A pause. Breath thick again.

“Maybe it’s you,” he said.

“To see. Just to see you.”

He fell quiet then.

Not finished. Just waiting.

It was supposed to be Levi’s freedom. To do with it as he wished.

He saw that now. Heard it in what Eren shared and how he shared it. Every unfinished sentence, every raw tremor.

What freedom was this? What choice?

The thought came, swift and unbidden.

A brutal one. You know it. You said he had one too.

How ironic, then, the way it made one’s body rigid just to contemplate—death earned, death chosen, and still the soul resisting. Still the mind recoiling from its execution.

Now? No. Never. Not yet, he tried to argue. His own voice, a flinch in the quiet. And still—

Then… when? Why not? What more do you want?

What more, indeed.

Levi didn’t shut it down this time.

He let the thought bloom. Let it unfold inside him like a bruise gaining color.

His values. His conscience. The lived agony.

How did one go past all that and offer—anything?

Anything but silence. Anything but rejection.

He didn’t know how one got there.

And yet, here he was.

So soon. Already swayed.

Was it weakness? Idiocy? Blindness?

What, exactly, was carrying him forward?

He shifted—an almost imperceptible nudge. One leg repositioned beneath the table. His hand extended and pushed the cup slightly away, off center. Not abandoned. Not refused. Just… marked.

His eyes flickered to the side, catching a fixed point on the stove wall, then returned. His lips thinned, compressed into a line so tight it bordered on brittle.

But his voice came. Measured. Final.

“I am here.”

It landed with more force than Levi intended.

Just three words. I am here. Not affection. Not invitation. Presence. But even that—

It hit.

Eren’s brows lifted—not just from surprise, but from something breaking loose in his chest. His pupils trembled, not from fear but the fight to remain composed. The tendons along his neck snapped taut, lines stark against skin.

His breath caught on a half-swallowed motion.

Throat locked. A whizz of air slipped mid-way, then stopped.

His nostrils tensed. Flared. Head pitched forward instinctively—like his body searching for a way to breathe that wouldn’t come. The silence stung louder than words.

Eren didn’t gasp. Didn’t collapse outright. But the choking was visible. Silent. Brutal.

His chest seized and stayed that way—lungs refusing rhythm.

Levi’s eyes widened. Just a little. Enough.

His torso shifted slightly forward in his chair, stopped halfway—as if pulled, as if primed to act—but not ready. His hand didn’t reach. His feet didn’t move.

Frozen between instinct and history.

Eren clutched himself—fingers splayed from throat to chest, wide enough to cover both like he didn’t know where the blockage was. His shoulders dipped, then trembled. Almost heaving.

Levi spoke. Just one word.

“Eren.”

It was command. It was concern. It was acknowledgment.

It broke the seal.

Eren wheezed in—one sharp, ragged breath. Then another. Then more.

Air rushed in too fast, too much—making him stumble. The release crumpled him. The rigidity went first, then the strength.

His knees gave, sliding him down. First forward—hands thudding against the floor, palm and knuckle spread as he stared downward at the boards, seeing nothing. Grounding by instinct.

Breathing returned, gradually. A slow, stuttering rhythm.

Then, with effort, he moved. Backward. A conscious brace against the cupboard behind him, head pressing back to feel the wood, the reality of it. Something he could lean into. Something that wouldn’t give.

He looked up, dazed, blinking at the ceiling like it might offer explanation. Then, finally—

His gaze landed on Levi.

Not searching. Not asking.

Just seeing if he was still there.

He was.

Levi looked back.

Not to inspect. Not to assess. To see.

It was the only thing he had now, the only offering left that didn’t feel performative.

Eren’s breaths came in a measured pattern now—forced, dragged deep from somewhere far inside, slow and deliberate like he was reciting a lesson learned too late. Every few exhales caught. Stuttered. Like his lungs couldn’t quite commit to trust again.

His chest rose high with each inhale, wider than Levi remembered—shoulders broader, collarbones more prominent, the expanse of him too vast now to disguise. Still, somehow, too small. Too slight to hold what had been put inside him.

He was tall. Strong, perhaps still. But the suffering had outgrown the body meant to house it.

Levi’s gaze fell to Eren’s hands—big, palms broad, fingers long and capable. And yet… too thin. Bony. Underground hands. Hunger carved into shape. Like someone who’d been surviving in ratios—just enough not to die. Never enough to feel full.

The clothing Eren wore was tattered—edges frayed, seams pulled at the joints. Material worn to memory. His hair, long and damp, clung in places to his cheek and jawline. Stray strands, curling again at the edges, stuck down by cold sweat. Familiar sweat. Too familiar.

Levi’s eyes traveled the line of Eren’s throat, watched it bob with a dry swallow. Then his gaze rose again, catching lips—half open, visibly parched, like even speaking might split them. And finally, the eyes.

Heavy-lidded. Shut.

Levi didn’t move. But Eren did. Slowly.

He felt the stare. And though exhausted, broken open, not asked again—he obeyed.

He opened them.

Met Levi’s gaze once more.

He would keep doing so, Levi realized. Until told otherwise. Until released.

Levi kept looking. Not flinching. Not blinking.

And in that time, he saw more.

The way Eren’s weight balanced against the cupboards like he was afraid the floor might give. The way his arms hung not limp, but dormant, like they remembered action but chose surrender. The way even his silence had texture now—coarse and full.

This was what Eren Jaeger had become.

A remnant. A ghost in a living shell.

The pain of the world was etched into the contours of his face—permanently, it seemed. And it looked back at Levi, unashamed. Unhidden.
And Levi did not turn away.

He kept looking.

He saw the worst of it.

The despicable. The harrowing. The inconsolable. The ugliest parts. He saw it all.

And beyond that, somehow, he saw the face itself.

The one beneath it.

He could see it. Still. Even now.

Was that the reason he stayed?

Or was it something else?

He didn’t answer the question. He only sat with it. Let it exist without struggle.

The room did not breathe with them. But the air held.

Levi didn’t speak for some time.

He sat with the image in front of him—a man hollowed out, but still full somehow. Eyes that opened when asked. Breaths counted out like confessions.

Then, without deciding to, “Give up on your dreams and die.”

His voice carried no edge. No bark. Just air.

Eren didn’t flinch. But something passed between them. Not shock. Not tension. Recognition.

Levi paused.

The phrase had clawed its way up from memory. Not as reprimand. As ritual.

He studied Eren again.

The broken hands. The torn clothes. The bones pressed near the skin.

“Is that what you did?”

No reply.

But the gaze held. Held enough that Levi could feel the answer. And feel the weight of the question itself.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was acknowledgment.

That something had died. And something else survived. And the difference between the two… was not clear anymore.

The answer, once more, was not in his grasp.

And perhaps it was time to admit that not everything needed dissecting. Some truths came wrapped in venom, stinging more with each unspooling. He'd heard once that knowledge was power—but power warped. It didn’t lift. It bent. And Levi had watched too many small empires born not of clarity, but of confusion wielded like a blade. Pigs in uniforms. Men with medals forged from slogans. Facts, twisted into fuel.

He’d seen it—the cruelty of selective revelation. The way a sliver of truth, flung carelessly, could rupture minds more than any lie.
There were questions better left unanswered, not out of fear, but survival.

Because the more he searched, the less he found peace.

Willful blindness was different than conceding that sometimes, the trail ended with no bone left to bury.

And where did that leave him? Still torn. Still listening for something solid in Eren’s voice, even knowing it wouldn’t come. And even if it did, it would splinter, not settle.

Right and wrong weren’t separate shores. They mingled in the tide. And Levi stood knee-deep, fists clenched at his sides, wondering what he was still trying to hold.

He didn’t know what answer he’d been treading the water for. And maybe it didn’t matter. The truth didn’t clarify—it bled.

So perhaps it was time to let go of the weight he’d been trying to clutch with bloodied fists. The questions. The logic. The need for perfect understanding.

Some things slipped through anyway. Like sea water.

No matter how tightly he tried to close his fingers, it passed. Shifted. Changed.

He could fight the current again—try to claw his way out, exhaust himself in resistance.

Or he could let it carry him.

Not in surrender.

In calculation.

Let it drag him out, show its strength, lose its hold—and then choose his stroke. His direction. His shore.

Yes. Maybe he was done swimming against tides. There was no rest in the constant struggle.

And he was tired. Bone-deep.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the tide had carried them to the same shore this time. Not for salvation. Not for reconciliation. Just to stand. On the same grain of earth.

The thought settled in him like sediment—no longer swirling, no longer asking to be held.

They had arrived. Perhaps not by choice. But still, here. Same shore. Same sand beneath their feet.

Levi reached forward, fingers wrapping around the cool ceramic of the untouched cup—the one placed opposite, not as offering, but as declaration. His grip held steady. Not forceful. Just sure.

He stood.

His body found alignment easily, like the decision had already been made hours earlier and he was only now catching up to it. Not braced. Not armored. But assembled. Intentional.

Eren's attention latched to him immediately, instinctive as breath.

Levi met it. Not a glance—something slower. A convergence.

Their eyes found each other and held, the air between them thinned by the weight of what had passed without language.

No words rose. Levi stepped forward.

Closed the distance not with speed, but direction. Enough to place himself squarely in front of Eren—knee still half-bent from where he'd slid to the floor, head tilted slightly back now, not in defiance but readiness.

Levi lowered the cup.

Offered it.

No ceremony. No softness. Just the gesture.

Steam no longer curled above it, but the scent remained—earthy, clean, familiar.

Eren blinked. His fingers did not rise immediately.

Levi didn’t prompt.

He simply stood there. Present. Delivering what might have once been routine, but now felt weighted with something rarer.

Eren’s eyes flicked from Levi’s face to the cup. Then back again. The silence between them deepened, not oppressive, but hanging like fog, soft and unsparing.

His fingers twitched.

Levi noticed. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t press.

He stood, offering neither retreat nor reassurance. Just space. Enough for Eren to wrestle with the moment.

Eren’s hand lifted slowly, elbow stiff with restraint. It hovered, halted just before touching. His fingers curled—not around the cup, but around air. And froze.

A breath caught in his throat, not swallowed. His mouth parted, shaped to ask, but no sound came. Instead, his eyes dropped.
Not to Levi’s face. To his hand.

The one holding the cup. Not by the handle, but around the side. Palm exposed. Fingers firm. And unmistakably right.

The scarred shape of it, unfinished. Visible. Offered.

Eren’s eyes widened. Not in shock—recognition. Of change endured. Of pain not hidden.

Something moved across his face—grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or awe. But it stopped short of expression. A muscle clenched in his jaw. His hand still hadn’t touched the cup.

Then Levi spoke.

Voice low. Even.

“It is not pity I am offering you.”

Eren steadied himself.

His shoulders squared—not as defense, but as a quiet bracing. He let the tremble run its course down his arm, then quelled it at the wrist. And reached.

This time, no hesitation.

His hand rose slowly and found the rim of the cup—his fingers curling around the top, not the side, not the handle. A gesture that required trust. Vulnerability. Exposure.

His grip tightened just enough to confirm presence, not control. Levi held firm.

And then he felt it.

Eren’s thumb—just the edge of it, nail barely brushing—made contact. A fractional scrape against one of Levi’s fingers.

Not intrusive. Not invasive. There. Alive.

Levi didn’t react with breath or blink.

But his hand, steady until then, shifted slightly in response. Not away. Just the smallest adjustment of pressure. Recognition in touch.
A beat passed. Then another.

Neither pulled back. Neither moved further.

Eren spoke.

His voice was low, unshaped by performance. His eyes didn’t lift. He kept looking at Levi’s hand.

“I... know.” Not declaration. Not apology. Just truth, said aloud.

His thumb remained. His gaze narrowed—not in suspicion, but focus—on the skin, the ridge, the place where pain had reshaped the hand that now met his own.

“I see.”

"Good." Levi said it without ceremony, the word unembellished. But it wasn't dismissal.

His voice held no push, no pull. Just a still point.

Eren moved.

Not quick, not slow. Deliberate.

His thumb brushed again. More fully this time. Not by accident. The contact wasn't overt, but it was chosen. A quiet confirmation.
Levi felt it—the pressure that lingered longer than utility required. And he released.

Eren’s fingers didn’t drop. They remained, just a moment more. His gaze fixed not on the cup, but where Levi’s hand had been. Where it had answered.

Levi’s finger—that one—twitched.

Then, after a pause, his hand retracted with controlled rhythm. Fingers flexed once. Then settled neatly at his side.

Only then did Eren lift the cup to his lips.

He drank.

At first, just motion. Habit. Swallow.

Then pause.

His mouth stilled. His throat barely worked through the second pull.

And something opened.

The flavor found memory. It pierced through muscle and into marrow, and Eren’s breath faltered—not lost, just knotted in recognition.
A sound escaped.

It wasn’t shaped like speech. Not quite gasp. Not sob.

Something between a breath drawn too sharply and a sigh forgotten mid-release.

His fingers clenched the cup tighter—not violently, but like an anchor.

His chest lifted, then dropped, like the wind had touched him with both clarity and ache.

His lips parted. Not to speak. But to feel.

And his eyes rose.

They found Levi’s.

Everything else stayed still, but behind those eyes, Levi saw it. That bloom of comfort colored with loss.

The warmth hit Eren’s throat, and with it, a voice—quiet, clipped, remembered.

Choose. Regret less.

He had. And this time, it didn’t feel like regret.

He let the cup lower slowly, breath steady, movement unhurried.

Across from him, Levi shifted.

One hand rose—not to reach, but to rest on the lip of the kitchen table, fingers splayed in a loose frame. Not tight, not braced. Just placed.
A memory, reversed.

Years back, in another room, another chapter. Levi at the table, offering tea in silence, holding still while the world spun louder than any clock. That steadiness then—the quiet ritual—it had settled Eren in ways he'd never named.

Now, Levi mirrored it. The hand still scarred. The moment still real. But this time, it was Eren who had drunk.

Eren’s eyes caught the gesture. And something further dislodged in his chest.

The silence cracked—not by force, but memory.

“You’ve always made the best tea,” he said.

No affectation. No attempt to charm or lighten. Just fact. Straight from wherever his lungs had buried it all these years.
Levi’s brow lifted.

Not subtly. Not practiced. His whole expression shifted—surprise plain, unguarded, almost startled by the softness of what had just been said. By the normalcy. By being pulled, without warning, into something familiar.

His mouth didn’t form words. But his stare held something new.

Recognition. And perhaps, beneath it, the stirrings of… something less sharp.

Levi didn’t look away.

He let the memory settle where Eren had placed it—offered unwrapped, without apology.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Not from tension. Thought.

Then, with a flick of breath, “Hardly a challenge.”

The words dropped with Levi’s usual restraint, but their shape was not dismissive. It was acknowledgment—drawn not from pride, but precision.

Eren blinked.

Then, his mouth twitched, the left side curling gently upward.

A half-smile.

Faint. Earnest. Seen.

He nodded once to himself. Not to Levi. Not for show. Just a gesture formed from memory finally arriving.

His fingers remained around the cup, the warmth now tethered to something beyond taste.

“I thought of it sometimes,” he said.

His voice had thickened. Not cracked, but weighted.

“When…” He paused. Words stepped forward, then retreated.

His throat moved. Eyes lowered just slightly. “It helped. Even if a little, to…” A breath. “It helped.”

He didn’t clarify. He didn’t need to.

Levi didn’t mean to speak.

The words left him before he could shape them. A slip. A question. Unexpected. But real.

“And now?”

It hung there. Breathing. Unclaimed.

He didn’t know why he’d asked. Didn’t trace the path that led it from thought to mouth.

But he didn’t take it back. Not this. Not now.

So he let it hang. Let it settle between them like dust in still air.

Lines blurred. Again.

Eren didn’t answer immediately.

His fingers tightened around the cup, not protectively, but like he needed the weight. His shoulders didn’t rise. His breath didn’t catch.
But something in his posture shifted—barely. A tilt. A lean. Not toward Levi. Toward the question.

His eyes lowered—not in shame, but in search. As if the answer might be somewhere in the warmth still lingering in the ceramic.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

Not startled. Not guarded.

Open.

Eren answered without further delay.

“What you want.”

His voice didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. It landed clean—firm, but not forceful.

Levi blinked once. Not from surprise. Just to mark the words.

He tilted his head slightly, nothing sharp. And asked—

“And if I don’t?”

Not brusque. Not mocking.

Just a clean inquiry, sliced from the stillness between them.

A moment passed. Eren exhaled and shrugged—not in dismissal. It was a motion of quiet understanding. Of recognition.

It wasn’t his choice. It hadn’t been then. It still wasn’t now.

“Then you don’t.” The simplicity of it made it whole. He didn’t add rationale. Didn’t decorate the truth.

Levi didn’t speak.

But something inside him shifted, just barely.

Not enough to name. Enough to lean.

And that’s when he spoke again. This time quieter.

“You came back.”

Not an accusation. Not flattery.

Eren nodded once.

“I did.” His thumb absently traced a line across the ceramic cup. Not out of distraction. Out of grounding.

“It felt…” He faltered. Not from uncertainty. From overload.

“Right, then.”

He swallowed. His breath thickened.

“But I saw you.” A flicker passed his eyes. Past and present colliding briefly in his gaze.

“And now… I got this.”

His hand lifted the cup just slightly. He didn’t drink again—he showed it. A gesture more than an explanation.

“More… I don’t…” The words stacked, loose, barely held.

“I wouldn’t.”

Nothing more.

Levi nodded once in response. Not a bow. Not a concession.

Just an inhale pushed out through his nose. Unconcealed. Clean. Acceptance.

Then silence again.

This one deeper. Shaped by admittance.

A verdict to be made now—his. Levi’s.

Not a verdict passed down by rank, or age, or suffering twisted into lesser evils.

Not one born from a knife at the throat or obligation forged in loss.

A different kind of power. One not taken, but given.

An offering once withheld with reason. Now hanging.

His to choose. His to discard.

Regret was a slippery thing now. The outcome, completely hazy.

Levi’s own phrasing—blunt, uninviting, still echoing—came back to him like a ricochet. “If it’s easy you’re after…” And Eren had answered. Truthfully. Not easy. Never easy.

They'd carved that rhythm themselves, and now he was left to trace its aftermath.

A coward he was not. He’d come too far to withdraw quietly. Too many roads walked through ash and silence to second-guess now.
He took a deeper breath, slow. Inhaled the faint cedar still lingering in the room from earlier—cleansing steam, rinsed skin, quiet ritual. It steadied him.

His eyes didn't leave Eren, though they’d softened, edged now with something unreadable—less cold, more resigned.

“I can't pretend to know what’s right,” he said, voice level but stripped of iron. A beat passed.

“But rest…”

A soft crack from the stove—wood shifting as the heat fled it, settling into embers. It wasn’t loud, but in the stillness, it cut through, like the house itself exhaling. Levi’s gaze flicked toward the sound. Eren did too, reflexively, as if pulled by the same invisible thread.

“That at least,” Levi finished, voice even, “I feel you’ve earned.”

Eren didn’t respond immediately.

But his posture shifted. The shoulders, so often locked tight, sank just slightly. A breath found its way out without strain.

Levi didn’t reach for comfort. That wasn’t his way. But something in the angle of his stance, the absence of retreat, said enough.

It said, maybe, this wasn’t a beginning. But it wasn’t a goodbye either.

Eren’s face pinched first. Not from pain—release. A flicker of something ancient, held too long behind brow and jaw.

Then, slowly, it softened. Wrinkles unraveled; his jaw eased open like a door long sealed.

A breath left him like it hadn’t known how before.

Tears followed. Silent. At first just at the corners—glistening, unsure. Then flowing.

Not in spasms. No sobs. Just liquid truth, breaking free.

They ran down his cheeks, cold and thin. Some reaching his lips—salt for the thirsty, strange nectar for a mouth that hadn’t asked for comfort in years.

He didn’t hide it.

Eyes open. Body still.

Levi saw it all.

Not the breakdown. Something gentler. A catharsis earned in stillness.

Eren had stayed. Met his gaze. Spoken without armor. This was submission, yes—but not defeat.

It was what Levi demanded without asking. Truth offered without dilution. And what Eren gave freely, not because it was easy, but because it was all he had. Still not enough. Still far too little.

But his to give.

Levi knew that. And knew that it wouldn’t have happened without a signal—some gesture, however small.

So he moved.

Leaned down. Extended his hand.

It hovered, low but clear.

An invitation. Not command.

Eren looked at it for half a second, then reached.

Their palms met. Levi squeezed once—brief, firm. Then turned.

Walked toward the chairs, not the table. Not opposite sides. Parallel now.

He sank into his own, frame enveloped by the contours of wood and velvet, familiar in its fit.

One leg crossed lightly over the other. Back pressed, shoulders loose. Still upright. Still composed. But folded slightly, as one does at home.

Eren stood where Levi had left him. Swaying. Chest heaving quiet.

Then moved.

Approached the second armchair—unused until now. Angled toward Levi’s. Only a small round table between.

His hand found the top—soft velvet, unexpected.

Kind. Warm. Inviting.

He squeezed. The fabric gave. And Eren sighed.

His other hand came up, less gracefully—brushing at the drying trails on his cheeks, wiping with the roughness of someone unused to tenderness.

He looked at Levi.

Not for approval. Just to see.

Levi didn’t look back. But he didn’t look away. His eyes rested across the room, steady, familiar.

Eren understood. Read the mood.

This was a room made to hold him now.

He sat.

Sank into the cushion—too quick at first, too easy. It startled him. The softness.

He caught himself.

Sat up slightly, shoulders drawn inward. Spine curled forward. Arms resting heavy on his thighs, splayed, like he might push off at any moment.

Ready to go. But, for now—still here.

Levi brought Eren into focus with a simple statement.

“The room is for one in here. Is how I made it,” he says, voice flat, almost indifferent.

He didn’t look at Eren, not directly. But he saw him.

“But I’ve enough for two in provisions if careful. Two weeks or so, I’d guess. The bed… you’ve to figure out on your own. I’m not sharing.”
The words are plain, but they land with weight—deliberate, not casual. Not a whim.

Levi had seen it. It was in the way Eren’s boots hadn’t fully settled on the floor, heels lifted just slightly. In the way his eyes flicked toward the window, not to look, but to measure distance. Like he was bracing for rejection. Like he expected to be told to leave. Like he’d already rehearsed the walk back through the forest, back to nowhere.

Levi didn’t pity him. He wouldn’t.

But he understood.

“You came here first.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a fact, laid bare.

“Not because it was easy,” He continued. His fingers run over the woolen blanket folded over one side of his seat, tracing a pattern in repeat. “Because there’s nowhere else. There’s no warm home waiting for you out there. I know that. You know that.”

Eren didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed, just slightly.

Levi continued, tone low, even.

“I saw it. In your face. In the way you looked at the trees like they might spit you back out.”

He paused, then glanced up—once.

“You didn’t miss the meaning. Just didn’t trust it.”

Eren’s breath hitched. He didn’t move, but something in him shifted—like a thread pulled loose, mouth going slack as if to protest, but Levi wasn’t done. It stopped him.

“I don’t pity you.” A beat. “But I don’t take back what I offered, either.”

Outside, sudden wind shifted through the branches, a soft rustle like the forest exhaling.

Levi stood, walked back to the shelf near the stove, and pulled down a new set of cups. Not mugs, but smaller, thinner. White porcelain with delicate leaves running round the rim.

Pretty. Delicate. Twin.

A gesture—not a promise, not absolution. Space—confirmed.

A place to be.

He took the tea out and set it on the worktop.

“I don’t take things back. Not when I’ve already made the call.”

Outside, the wind stirred the trees further. Inside, the cabin held its quiet.

“It’s not forever. It’s not unconditional.” He shrugged. “But it’s a place to be. For now.”

And then, “You’ll need to boil water if you want hot tea. I’m not doing it for you.”

Eren blinked, then let out a breath that felt too big for his chest. It came out shaky, but not broken.

Relief, maybe. Or the shock of being allowed to stay.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t trust his voice.

But when he did, it was low, rough.

“I didn’t know if I could ask,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “Didn’t know if I should.”

Levi didn’t answer right away. He moved to the stove, checked the fire, nudged a log into place.

“You didn’t have to.” He straightened, dusted his hands. “I make the room. I stock the shelves. I left the door unlocked.”

He shifted to face Eren.

“You’re not welcome. Not everywhere.” A pause. “But here’s not everywhere.”

Eren shoulders dropped, his spine uncoiled. And for the first time in what felt like years, warmth—not heat, but something gentler—spread through him.

Not forgiveness. Not home. But a place to be.

“Thanks,” he said. Simple. But it carried everything.

Levi gave a short nod, already turning back to the stove.

“Don’t waste the tea leaves. They’re the good kind.” was added, along with him placing the kettle back to boil.

Levi stepped away, making room. He busied himself at the kitchenette, clearing the half-empty mugs, tipping the leftovers into the sink, and reaching for the brush.

The soft, steady trickle of water hitting the basin filled the air.

“You wash it next time,” he said, addressing Eren as he scrubbed the blue cups. Soap suds slid easily over the ceramic, swirling down the drain. His gaze lingered on the cold tea residue washing away, but with a quiet reminder that water was precious, he shut off the tap and reached for the cloth.

It was coarse—worn from years of use, its edges frayed like the hem of an old shirt. He folded it once, then again, pressing it into the curve of the cup with practiced ease. The sound was faint. Fabric against glaze, a soft rasp.

Behind him, the air shifted.

Not dramatically, but enough. A subtle change in pressure, the kind that comes when someone enters your orbit. Levi didn’t turn, but his shoulders adjusted slightly, acknowledging the presence.

A metallic snap broke the quiet—the seal of a can giving way under Eren’s fingers. Levi’s ears pricked at the sound, familiar and oddly comforting. Then came the whisper of dried leaves cascading into porcelain, followed by the clink of a spoon against the rim as Eren measured them out.

The kettle hadn’t yet been touched, but Levi could hear the deliberation in Eren’s movements. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Levi placed the last mug upside down on the drying rack, aligning it with the others. He wiped his hands on the cloth, then hung it over the edge of the sink. The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was filled with the small, domestic sounds of a shared space. The kind of silence that spoke of coexistence.

"You know how long to steep it?" Levi asked, voice low, not turning.

Eren didn’t answer immediately. The hum of the kettle was beginning to build.

“Three minutes,” Eren said finally. “You said that once.”

Levi gave a quiet grunt of approval, stepping aside to let Eren pass if he needed to. Their movements didn’t clash. They folded into each other’s rhythm like two people who’d done this before, or who might again.

They were both surprised by the next sound that broke the companionable silence.

A loud, resounding gurgle rose over the steady whoosh of boiling water.

Had they not already been standing, they might have frozen mid-motion at the demanding noise.

They looked to each other—briefly. Neither gave anything away.

Then Levi’s stomach decided to announce its existence again. A second gurgle, longer. More insistent.

A beat.

Then—a snort. Short. Inelegant. Free.

Eren’s mouth twitched, the corner lifting before he could stop it. Levi raised an eyebrow.

“Something funny, brat?” he asked, tone dry, challenging. He fought the urge to press a hand to his stomach, as if that might silence its unashamed serenading.

It was the first time Levi had seen an expression so unguarded on Eren’s face—without grief, without weight. A glimpse of joy, long buried.

A moment so inconsequential, yet meaningful.

Beautiful, Levi’s mind unhelpfully inferred.

As if—he chided himself. Quick to shoehorn the thought back into the recesses of his mind, where it belonged. Not the forefront.

Eren didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either.

The kettle announced itself behind them, steam curling upward like a breath released.

“You didn’t eat,” Levi stated—not asked. Detached. An observation, not concern. Even though it was his own body calling attention to the absence.

He had a bitter inkling that Eren’s body was past hunger. The frame remained broad, but now—standing—Levi could see how the clothes hung in places they hadn’t before. Loose at the shoulders. Slack at the waist.

There was a look to a body deprived of satiation. Taut and wiry. Skin clinging to muscle and bone, every protrusion highlighted like a map of neglect.

Eren’s face was too sharp. The hands setting the kettle aside to cool were a quiet testament to his journey. How it went. Or how he left himself to it.

Now Levi knew it hadn’t just been an impression.

Eren didn’t stop moving about the counter, even though there was nothing left to do while waiting. For a moment, Levi considered he hadn’t heard him.

But then—measured, careful—Eren replied.

“Sometimes. It wasn’t… It didn’t seem…” He trailed off, unsure even now what the reason had been.

Levi felt something twist in his gut. It wasn’t hunger.

“Didn’t seem what, exactly?” he asked. Sharper than intended.

Eren’s back stiffened—just enough for Levi to notice. A trained eye didn’t miss that kind of shift.

“Possible? Safe? Right?” Levi pressed. The thought had gotten under his skin and refused to settle. So he pushed. Maybe words would bleed it out.

Eren hesitated. Not imperceptibly, like many other signs passed between them. A visible thing. His head swayed to the side, arguing with himself. Feet shuffled, discomfort blooming in his stance.

“Worth it…” he said finally. Flat. Grim.

He didn’t show Levi his face. Angled himself away.

Like a whip cracking through still air, the atmosphere shifted.

Levi bit at the inside of his cheek, hard, until the sting reined in the flood rising behind his ribs. His eyes tightened, white blooming behind one lid.

His hand, resting on the edge of the counter, curled slightly. Not in anger. In restraint.

From the spout of the kettle steam kept rising. Unnoticed.

Levi tried to stay still.

Tried to let it pass. To let the moment settle like dust. But it didn’t.

It clawed at him.

Eren’s words—“Worth it…”—had cracked something. Something deeper.

Levi’s eyes remained fixed on the counter, but his jaw had locked. His hand, still resting near the drying rack, curled tighter.
He knew hunger. Not the kind that gnawed politely. The kind that hollowed you out. That made you forget names, faces, even your own voice.

He’d lived it. Before Kenny. Before the Corps. Before anything that resembled structure.

He’d watched his mother fade, skin clinging to bone. He’d fought for scraps. Stolen. Bartered. Done things he wouldn’t name.
And even then—he’d eaten. Because survival demanded it. Because even the worst of them knew that to stop eating was to stop trying.

So when Eren said it hadn’t seemed worth it, Levi felt something rupture.

He turned, slow but deliberate.

“It’s decay alive, what you’re saying.” His voice was low, but frayed. “Why on earth?” A pause. “I don’t condone what you’ve done, yet still…”

The words faltered. For the first time, they frayed at the edges.

“Enough is enough.”

He hated his tone. It sounded like pleading. Like he was begging for sense.

Eren flinched. Then snapped.

“I didn’t choose it!” he burst out, thumping the wood beneath his hand. The delicate porcelain rattled at the impact.

“I didn’t fucking choose to come back. It just happened… I was supposed to stay dead!”

His voice cracked, raw and uneven.

“You think I was hoping for ‘after’? There was no after in all this. So why…” He faltered. A whine in his throat, barely contained.

“The ‘why’ I was denied, too. Like everything else. Even death.”

He turned further away, shoulders hunched.

“So yeah… Felt fitting to just… forget sometimes. What else you want me to say?”

The words landed heavy.

They unraveled—like a thread pulled loose from something once held together. Not surrender, but a quiet renouncement. Of dignity. Of the right to care. Of being someone worth tending to.

Levi hovered in the space between impulse and restraint. His body taut, breath shallow. A moment suspended—like a blade held mid-swing, unsure if it should fall.

His gaze dropped, catching the tremor in Eren’s hand. Fingers still curled, tendons drawn tight. Red had begun to spread across the underside—where flesh met wood in that downward strike. Levi was still wearing a similar mark himself. Not even a day old. Right here, at this counter. But his fracture had come from fury. Eren’s was something else. A wound turned inward.

Levi braced himself, as if for combat. But really—what else was this, if not that?

“You came. That means something.”

A few short steps and he was passing Eren. His fingers clasped around a thinner wrist than he remembered—pulling. Not harshly. But not delicately either. With purpose.

“Come. This needs cleaning. And then food. Us both.”

Eren, stunned by the direct touch, followed like a lamb. Not for slaughter. Away.

Levi guided him to the small bathroom, manoeuvering him with ease to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. Eren didn’t have time to take in the new four walls—this small world expanding—before Levi was pressing a tube into his hand.

“Salve. For the bruises and swelling.” His voice was clipped, almost clinical. As if it needed explaining. As if naming it would stave off the awkwardness beginning to creep in.

“You do it. I’m not putting it on for you, brat.”

The old moniker landed with a familiar weight. Eren reached out without thinking, head still whirring, trying to process.

His brows furrowed. And before Levi could register the shift, the roles reversed—his own hand was being cradled in Eren’s.

Gingerly examined. Thumb brushing over the tender skin.

Eren’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto Levi’s.

“Because of me?” Quiet. Pointed.

Yes, you would have been the obvious answer. But Levi held it back.

“I was being stupid,” he offered instead.

Eren’s brows lifted—doubt clear, but unspoken.

Then a familiar touch settled at the bend of Levi’s thumb and forefinger. Deliberate. Questioning.

Perilous, Levi’s mind warned. Stop it.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Same difference.

It was far too intimate for what had transpired. Neither careless nor oppressive. Warm.

“I hurt you,” Eren admitted. Still holding on.

Levi grimaced. Not from pain. From truth.

It wasn’t the physical bruise Eren meant. Not only.

“Negligible,” Levi tried. Not dismissing it entirely. Just minimizing.

“It isn’t. I know it. You know it,” Eren said, echoing Levi’s own words from earlier.

Bastard.

The point of contact felt like a brand in the making.

“Not like that, Eren.” It was all Levi could manage. Ambiguous. Unlike him.

But there was too much for a clean answer. Not physically—not you. But by proxy. The Corps. Humanity. The cause. The hope.

But not them, as felt implied. Some comfort in denying that.

Can’t hurt what was never promised. Never realized.

“I call bullshit,” Eren said. Not angry. Not challenging. Certain.

Levi narrowed his eyes. How had they gotten here?

He’d been too gentle. Too open. A tactical error.

“That’s not yours to decide,” he argued. Some dissatisfaction seeping into his tone.

“To pretend won’t fix it,” Eren continued. Bold. Unflinching.

Levi felt the whiplash. This directness—unlike anything before.

He tugged at his hand, trying to free it. To sever the connection that betrayed too much through pulse and quiver.

Eren held on. Didn’t ease to Levi’s demand.

Levi could have pulled harder. Could have broken the grip.

But it felt useless.

“There is nothing to fix,” Levi said finally. Fighting with himself—quash or break.

“Not in this. You get it?”

His voice was tight. But unflinching.

To bend was to expose. He chose to lean instead. To offer.

It felt raw. But the way Eren clasped his hand harder, how he almost pulled him closer, was telling enough.

There was nowhere to look but at Eren. Not then.

So he looked.

What he saw was sky and ocean. Not a storm. But a sunrise. Gentle. Radiant.

“I trust you,” Eren said.

Levi, not one for emotional fracture, could only share so much in a day.

He nodded. A jerk of the head.

“The salve,” he reminded. “Then, breakfast.”

Eren understood. And let go.

The withdrawal of his hand wasn’t retreat. It was cease-fire.

The heat remained for a while.

Chapter Text

Salve applied—without help, and no more touching. First Eren, then Levi. He wouldn’t have let him leave otherwise.

They reentered the kitchen with a tentative aura between them. To be expected.

Both lingered for a moment in the narrow strip separating the living space from the kitchen—a corridor of sorts, carved out for passage to the bathroom and the door beside it. Levi caught Eren glancing toward the exit. Surreptitious he was not. What he was thinking, Levi didn’t know. Preferred it stayed that way.

Eren resumed his earlier station, sweeping up the stray tea leaves he’d spilled in the heat of emotion. He sighed, chasing them onto his open palm, then looked to Levi for direction.

“Under the sink,” Levi said.

He watched as Eren moved about, learning the space with each action. There was something grounding in it—watching someone inhabit a place not yet theirs.

As he turned back and spotted the still-open tin of tea his brow creased. Annoyance.

Were Levi the dramatic type, he’d have rolled his eyes at that reaction.

“It doesn’t get stale that quickly. Also, you barely tipped any over.” He paused. “But you’ll waste a good deal of effort if you don’t finish making it. The water should be cool enough by now. It shou—”

“Steep three minutes. I know. I remember.” Eren cut in. Atypical.

Bratty? Maybe.

“Actually, I was going to say it’s probably cooled enough to make it five.” Levi shrugged, stepping past him into the kitchenette. “But if you know better, who am I to tell you.”

Their shoulders nearly brushed. Not quite.

No grumble followed from behind. Levi heard Eren pick up the kettle. That was his cue.

Breakfast.

His stomach hadn’t lied earlier. All that talking had stirred a craving for something substantial.

Reinforced oatmeal, apparently.

He didn’t ask Eren what he wanted. He’d eat what was given. And finish.

It was uncomplicated—calming, even—to reach and know what he’d find in each cupboard and drawer.

A small copper pot hung by the window, nestled among a few others. Three spoons in the upper drawer to Eren’s right—two for eating, one for stirring. An apple from the fruit bowl near the sink, placed on the cutting board with the knife already waiting. Dry goods from the cupboard to the right of the sink: oats, walnuts.

He hesitated. Eyes scanning the neatly arranged shelves.

Then reached for the precious jar of honey he’d thought about hours ago.

No milk. It had slipped his mind.

His doe would still give for a few months, even with the young sold in town for coin and necessities. But he didn’t have it in him to go to her now. She’d wait for the night turn.

Water would do.

He focused on slicing the apple into thin pieces when he felt Eren hover to his left.

“Haven’t seen someone cut an apple?” Levi asked.

“Not you.” Eren’s reply was quick.

“Still apple. Still knife. See no difference.” Levi slid the blade with steady precision through the next slice. Juice coated his fingertips. He didn’t mind. It was the way of things. He’d wash later.

“Why take a board if not needed?” Eren’s voice was lighter now, amusement curling at the edges.

“To put it back on when I’m done.” Levi answered, mildly mystified by the brat’s train of thought.

“You see then yourself. You’re different.” Eren said it like he’d won an argument Levi hadn’t realized they were having.

Were they talking about apples?

Letting it go was probably for the best.

Levi opened the oat jar and spooned the grain into the pot. Not fivefour. Ten. Double.

He reminded himself, guiding his hand to keep going instead of following the rhythm composed for one.

Eren was still there. Closer than needed. No points of contact. Just heat at Levi’s side and back.

“Make yourself useful. Don’t loom.” Levi finally addressed him.

He pressed the pot handle into Eren’s outstretched hand.

“Stir as it cooks. I hate it burnt. Tastes acrid.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across Eren’s face before he did as told.

Levi followed close, ensuring the tea wasn’t oversteeped. That would’ve been bitter too.

Then—nothing left but wait. At least not breakfast-related.

Levi didn’t fidget. That was Eren’s habit.

So why did he have to consciously stop himself from shifting as the porridge cooked under Eren’s watchful eye?

His legs were tired. He recognized that. But it wasn’t it .

He knew his body. He knew when restlessness tried to creep in.

Either he channeled it productively or suppressed it before it took hold.

He considered sitting down. Or sweeping.

Then Eren spoke.

“You don’t have to oversee me. I won’t bolt or do something stupid. You can go do whatever you want or need, you know?”

Levi groaned, internally, and sat down at one of the kitchen chairs.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“You’re not.” Eren repeated. No question. Just a statement.

Levi didn’t catch it. Not fully.

Neither elaborated.

Silence swelled. Then burst.

“You’re watching me.”

That, Levi couldn’t deny.

“I’m returning the gesture. Problem?”

Taunting, maybe.

Eren paused in his stirring.

“No. Not really…” He veered off, gumption fading.

“Fine.” Levi leaned back, projecting ease.

“Fine.” Eren echoed, tone peculiarly peevish.

Levi rarely missed Eren’s meaning. But something had slipped past him.

Before he could chase it, Eren announced the oats ready and began spooning them into bowls.

Levi let him. Still thinking.

He noticed Eren’s hand hesitate before the laid-out toppings. Like he wasn’t sure they were his to use.

Levi’s instinct was to stand. To do it himself.

But something stopped him.

He compared the dither to earlier ease. The sudden stiffness in Eren’s neck and back.

He couldn’t see his face. But he knew what he’d find there.

“Half apple each. I can’t eat whole.” Levi said.

“Two spoonfuls of nuts and a drizzle of honey. You make yours how you want. You’ll eat it.”

Then, casually, “It’s thick, so you need to be patient. You can manage that, you think?”

Silence.

Then a slow nod.

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

That was all it took.

Eren moved, finishing each bowl with care.

He placed Levi’s in front of him with the spoon. Weak steam carried sweet and savory notes to Levi’s nose.

Not how he’d planned to find himself at breakfast. But here he was.

Same meal. Different setting.

Confusion. Company. Eren.

He ate slowly. Spoon by spoon. Steady tempo.

And if Levi watched more than he’d admit, how each bite lit Eren’s face with a slightly different expression, there was no one else there to call him out.

The crunch of walnuts punctuated the intermittent click-clack of spoons against ceramic.

Time passed. Bowls emptied.

Levi finished first. Not surprising.

Now that he thought about it, it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Eren struggle with eating. A pattern.

“Finish before it gets cold?” He prompted.

Eren stilled. Looked at his hand like it was foreign. Then to Levi.

Bit his lip. Huffed. Nodded.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Levi replied.

That. For now.

He waited as Eren took his time. Didn’t rush.

His agitation had left him.

Levi watched as Eren finished and set the spoon down with a final clack .

He turned to Levi, eyes peeking from under his bangs.

“Happy?”

“Hardly. You left a nut.” Levi deadpanned.

Eren’s eyes widened, ridiculously, in Levi’s opinion.

No one needed eyes that big to see well.

“It’s spoilt,” he replied, disbelief lacing his tone.

“Ah…” Levi let the sound drift.

Then conceded, “Fair. Just checking.”

Levi shrugged—one shoulder, sharp and dismissive. Eren’s eyes narrowed, suspicion blooming into clarity.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Levi didn’t deny it. Didn’t even blink.

“How astute. Thought I’d have to spell it out for you, brat.”

Eren’s head shook, slow and theatrical. He pushed the empty bowl away from himself with a flick of his fingers, as if it had personally offended him.

“Unbelievable.”

Levi’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Just a shift—barely there.

The bowl clinked softly against the wood, settling into place. Steam had long since faded. But the warmth lingered.

Eren leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest. Not defensive. Just done.

Levi didn’t press further. He let the moment stretch, quiet and companionable.

The kitchen held its hush. Outside, the wind stirred faintly through the trees. Inside, the air was still.

The shared contemplation broke, not with words, but with motion.

One long leg extended across the modest space beneath the table. Levi didn’t flinch. But his brow lifted, barely, as a socked foot came to rest beside his own ankle. A single point of contact. Still. Intentional.

Eren’s expression didn’t shift. He leaned forward, forearm settling on the tabletop, palm down. His other hand tucked into the crook of his elbow.

Motionless at first. Then—fingers tapping. A rhythm Levi couldn’t place. Not musical. Not idle. Something internal.

Levi didn’t comment. Didn’t move. Not away. Not closer.

A minute passed. Then three. Maybe five.

The tapping quickened. Not frantic—but no longer lazy. Agitation, perhaps. Or anticipation.

Levi watched. Not openly. But he watched.

What was running through that head of his?

Was this a test? A probe to see how far Levi would let him go before pulling back? A way to measure boundaries without asking?

Or was it comfort—Eren seeking proximity, however small, however quiet?

Levi had no reference point for this kind of intimacy. Only instinct. A good guess. And Eren’s face.

Or maybe it was nothing. A coincidence. A clever toe finding purchase beside Levi’s ankle, near the tendon. Just resting. There.

But the heat ran up Levi’s calf. Subtle. Unspoken.

Teasing, even in its stillness.

Logically, it was nothing. Layers of fabric between them. Barely touching.

But Levi’s awareness of it—that threw him.

He didn’t like that feeling. An acute consciousness of his own body. In other settings, it wouldn’t have been disconcerting. His stalwartness had once been a weapon. Still was.

But now, with Eren not even pretending not to look at him, Levi felt heavy. And weightless.

He was used to being stared at. For a hundred reasons. But being seen —really seen—while being touched, even lightly? Rare.

Not for lack of trying. But because Levi didn’t allow it.

Touch carried weight. He was selective. Intentional. Who, how, when. Reciprocation mattered.

This—this moment—brought him into a specific headspace.

It felt good. To stay like that. To be an anchor. To be sought.

It probably shouldn’t.

It really shouldn’t.

And for the first time in a long while, Levi felt torn. Between allowing it. And taking it away.

However small it might be.

“Are you done staring?” Levi chose directness. Partial. Targeting Eren’s gaze felt safer than addressing the foot.

“My face isn’t gonna change from one minute to the next. Seems like a waste of time.”

“No.” A monosyllabic denial. Flat. Unapologetic.

The cursed toe pressed harder. Slid upward—just a centimeter. But Levi felt it. Sharp. Deliberate.

His toes flexed. Involuntary.

Eren smiled. Not wide. Just enough. Eyelids fluttering in what Levi could only read as self-satisfaction.

Levi’s jaw tightened. Not from anger. From restraint.

“You’re pushing your luck.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t lean back. Just said it.

Eren didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.

“I know.” He said it like a fact. Not a threat. Not a dare.

Levi’s gaze dropped, briefly, to the point of contact. Then back up.

“Why?”

Eren’s fingers stopped tapping. He shifted, leaning forward just slightly. The foot didn’t move.

“Because I don’t know how long I have.”

Levi didn’t respond. Not immediately.

“You think this is how you use it?”

Eren’s smile faded. Not entirely. But enough.

“I think this is how I find out if it’s real.”

Levi’s breath caught—just for a moment. Then released.

“And if it’s not?”

Eren’s foot didn’t retreat. But his voice did.

“Then I’ll stop.”

Levi looked at him. Really looked.

Eren’s eyes weren’t challenging. They were searching.

Levi swallowed. The motion distorted his reply, making it sound foreign even to his own ears.

“Okay.”

Just one word. But it landed like a stone in still water.

Eren’s pupils trembled. His head snapped up so fast he clipped his chin on the edge of the table. A soft thud. A wince.

“You… Are you… Levi?” The question came out fractured. Uncertain. Unwilling to assume, yet unable to stay silent.

Levi didn’t answer immediately. He watched Eren—watched the way his breath hitched, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his mind seemed to race ahead of his body.

It felt important to clarify. To name what okay meant. Was it permission to push? To return to what they were? To become something else?

Eren swayed slightly in his seat. A thought, unbidden, had struck him. Flashes of scenes that had no right existing in the recesses of his mind.

Levi couldn’t be sure himself what his okay encompassed. How far he was willing to take this fragile thing—recovered, reshaping, still undefined.

Uncertainty lingered. But so did resolve.

He paused. Then moved.

His hand reached across the rough surface of the table. Slow. Steady.

Fingers found Eren’s wrist—just below the edge of his sleeve. Skin. Warm.

Levi’s thumb pressed gently, tracing a slow circle. Mesmerized by the motion. By the fact that he was doing it.

Bold. But cautious.

Reckless. Yet premeditated.

Unnatural. And genuine.

Contradicting at every level.

“This is okay.” Levi’s voice was low. Measured.

“But anything more…” He wavered. Words difficult to form.

“Not yet.”

Disappointment was what Levi expected most. At his… what exactly? Request? Order? Appeal?

Whatever it was, it had been a line drawn with care. Not to shut Eren out, but to ask him to wait. To understand that Levi wasn’t refusing—just not ready to sprint.

There was something in Levi that yearned softly for closeness. It went without saying they weren’t strangers. Well, in some ways, yes. But not in the ones that mattered now—in this negotiation of tentative entry into new territory.

Step by step. Crossing an invisible line once drawn in stone.

A day, Levi reminded himself. Not even that. Haste clouded judgment too easily to be trusted.

But with history between them, and stakes higher than most could fathom, it rang true—some things could be felt in minutes. Not days. Not months.

In a rare moment of kindness toward himself, Levi thought, I deserve time .

Time to think. To feel. To establish himself in this new reality. To call the shots—not blindly, but with understanding.

He was in no shape for sprinting. And neither was Eren.

Let it breathe , his mind offered. And Levi acquiesced.

His body often knew what he didn’t yet. And the two points of contact—his thumb on Eren’s wrist, Eren’s foot near his ankle—felt right. Not overwhelming. Not drowning.

Eren, though—he was primed for running. Even when he waited, he was braced for motion.

So when Eren gave him candor, it compressed something in Levi’s chest. Astonishment at Eren’s reaction. At the ease of his acceptance. At the honesty.

The thumb still painted slow circles. And the possibility of more lingered. Not now. But later. Next.

An opening. Not a closure.

Levi saw Eren take it in—the words, the gesture. It was visible in the quickening breath. In the tension and release of his palm beneath Levi’s touch. In the subtle shift of his torso, leaning in—not aggressively, but like a cat nudging into a hand that pets them.

Respectful. Listening.

This was it, Levi noted. This was where he let it happen. Consequences be damned.

He didn’t believe in second chances. But this wasn’t starting over. This was letting the inevitable take shape.

The wall had crumbled. The old reasons held no power. The new ones hadn’t had time to form.

And so it was strangely easier to hold the door open.

“You amaze me, Levi.” Eren’s voice was quiet, gaze focused on their joined hands.

Levi snorted. A short, inelegant sound.

“I amaze myself, it seems. Maybe I’m old.”

Eren’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close.

“Old doesn’t mean slow.”

Levi raised an eyebrow.

“You’re saying I’m fast?”

“I’m saying you’re deliberate.”

Levi considered that. Deliberate. Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just… choosing.

He could live with that.

The breakfast bowls had long since cooled, but the warmth between them lingered.

Levi stood first, gathering the dishes with a quiet efficiency. Eren followed suit, wordlessly taking the cups and utensils. They didn’t speak at first—there was no need.

“You wash. I’ll dry,” Levi said, voice low but steady.

Eren nodded, sleeves pushed up, hands already under the tap. The water ran clear, then warm. Steam rose in soft curls.

Levi took the first mug from him, cloth in hand. The rhythm was easy. Unspoken. One washed, one dried and stacked.

It was domestic. Unremarkable. And strangely grounding.

When they finished, Eren reached for the cupboard without prompting. He placed the mugs exactly where Levi kept them—top shelf, left side, handles facing out.

Levi paused.

“You’ve been paying attention.”

Eren glanced over his shoulder.

“I like order. Yours makes sense.”

Levi didn’t reply. But something settled in his chest.

When the last spoon was tucked away, Levi leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“Have any things that need retrieving?” He asked it casually. The least invasive way he could think to ask.

Not to interrogate. Just to understand.

Eren tugged at a loose thread on his sleeve, eyes dropping for a moment.

“Just a backpack. Hidden in the forest. Safe spot.” He hesitated. “Change of clothes. A flask. Knife. Blanket.”

Levi pictured it. A solitary pack tucked beneath roots or brush. A life reduced to essentials.

“You want company, or can you find your way back?”

Eren looked up.

“I… Thank you. It’s close. I can manage.”

Levi nodded. Accepted it.

Eren left without ceremony. Levi watched his silhouette disappear into the tree line.

He stood there a moment longer than necessary. Then turned back inside.

There were things to do. Eren hadn’t been here for years. Levi had lived without him.

He could occupy himself.

He reached for the broom. Started with the floors.

The rhythm came naturally—long strokes, steady pace. His mind cleared with each sweep.

He always worked from the inside out. Practical.

When he reached the entrance, he paused. There was dirt where Eren’s boots had stood.

Levi blinked. A flash of those sturdy, worn shoes filled his mind.

Eren was in the forest. Or maybe already on his way back.

That Levi was awaiting him, already, was no less shocking than it was welcome.

“Maybe I am getting old,” Levi thought. Softening around the edges. Or maybe there was simply less to lose.

He resumed sweeping. Opened the door. Cleared the threshold. Brushed the porch.

The gate creaked.

Levi looked up.

Eren stepped into the yard, backpack slung over one shoulder. He closed the gate behind him and stood still.

As if checking if anything had changed. If Levi had changed.

Levi saw no point in letting him spiral.

“Welcome back.” Then, “That was quick. You can leave the bag at the entrance. I don’t want you dragging dirt in. I just swept.”

Eren’s gaze scanned Levi’s posture. Relaxed. Steady.

Something in him eased.

“I wouldn’t dare. I know better.”

“Good.” Levi confirmed. Then added, “I foresee a date with a shower too. You’ve got leaves in your hair. Spare towel’s in the bathroom cupboard. There’s only one, so it should be easy to find.”

He turned toward the stable.

“I’ll be brushing the horse next.”

The stable was quiet. 

The apple Levi had left earlier was gone—only the stem remained, nudged to the edge of the trough. A small sign of life. Of routine.

Levi stepped inside, the familiar scent of hay and horse sweat greeting him like an old companion. Dust hung in the air, caught in slants of light filtering through the slatted walls. The mare shifted in her stall, ears flicking once before settling.

He reached for the brush—wood-handled, bristles worn but firm. The kind he’d used for years. No need to replace what still worked.

The first stroke ran smooth down her flank. She exhaled through her nostrils, a soft huff of recognition. Levi moved with practiced ease—long, steady motions, starting at the shoulder and working down.

The sounds were familiar. The scrape of bristles against hide. The occasional creak of wood. The rhythmic scuff of his boots on packed earth.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The mare leaned into the brush, her weight shifting slightly. Levi adjusted without thought.

It was grounding. This space. This task.

And yet—different.

Eren was some meters away. Just like last time. But this time, Levi had invited him.

The day had followed its usual shape. Meal. Clean-up. Tending to the animal.

His routine hadn’t broken. It had bent. Expanded.

There was still space for both. For solitude and companionship. For quiet and presence.

Why shouldn’t there be?

Levi found himself confounded by how seamlessly his bubble had stretched to include another. Wasn’t that what he’d had once? With Isabel and Farlan?

Different in tone, yes. But still—a togetherness.

And with Eren, too. At times. This silent companionship that added another layer to simply walking through the motions.

Knowing someone was breathing beside you. Sharing space. Enjoying the same things. Annoying you with others.

Giving perspective. Happy to walk with you as the day passed. Even if sometimes away—knowing you’d fall in step again.

Finding a tempo that fit you both.

Levi knew that rhythm. Remembered it. But had kept it at arm’s length.

Eren was the one to take that hand. To pull him back into motion.

And Levi let him. Let them.

After dancing around it. After years of not denial, but denying.

After the world fell apart.

How did it feel for Eren to take that hand?

What were his thoughts, making space for himself in Levi’s life—for however long it would be?

In his house. In his bathroom. Under the same shower Levi had stood beneath hours before.

A completely different mood guiding his motions than Levi’s now—his hand steady on the brush, at peace instead of crumpling.

Was Eren also putting pieces back together while he let water wash off the grime of the day? And whatever ghosts haunted him?

Was he thinking about Levi?

Levi’s eyes widened at the image that entered his mind—unbidden, unwelcome, and yet… not unpleasant.

The mare shifted. A short blow from her nostrils. Her head nudged back.

Levi blinked.

He’d brushed too hard.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He softened his pressure. “That was indeed uncalled for. You’re right for calling me out.”

She snorted again, less sharply.

“Not sure what I was thinking exactly. Nothing you’d care about, that’s for sure.” He muttered under his breath, self-deprecating.

A pause.

“Apparently not that old. Yet.”

He finished the task with more alertness than usual. 

The bathroom was warmer than he remembered. Not just from the steam, but from the way it felt lived in. Clean. Spare. Woodsy.

The scent of cedar lingered faintly in the air—Levi’s signature, subtle but unmistakable. Everything had its place. Towels folded with precision. Soap dish aligned perfectly in the corner of the tub. Even the toothbrush sat upright, like it had been positioned deliberately.

Eren hadn’t noticed any of this earlier when Levi had brought him in to treat his hand. Then, he’d been too focused on the pain. On Levi’s touch. On not flinching.

But now, standing alone, it hit him. This was Levi’s bathroom. Not a communal washroom. Not a barracks basin. Personal.

He’d shared space with Levi before—kitchens, mess halls, carriages, trees. But never this. Never the quiet intimacy of a bathroom.

And Levi had let him in. Told him where to find the towel. Trusted him to use what he needed.

That meant something.

Eren stepped into the tub, feet meeting the cool porcelain. The contrast was sharp—heat from the water above, chill from the surface below. He liked it. It grounded him.

The water hit his skin hard. Not scalding, but hot enough to make him flinch. He didn’t turn it down.

Steam rose quickly, curling around his shoulders, softening the edges of the room. He reached up, fingers threading through his hair—only to get stuck halfway. Leaves. Knots.

He pulled one out, held it between his fingers, and smiled.

Levi had noticed. That meant he’d been looking.

He dropped the leaf, let it swirl down the drain.

His fingers gave up on the tangles. That was a battle for later.

He reached for the soap—resting in a small holder in the corner of the tub, just beneath the shower head. Used. Still damp.

Levi’s.

Eren picked it up, turned it over in his hand. It was smooth, worn down at the edges. He ran it over his chest, arms, neck. The scent was clean. Herbal. 

It smelled like Levi. Not in a weird way. Just… familiar.

It hit him how easy it was. Tub. Warm water. A twist of the handle.

He relaxed. Reminded himself he was safe. Alone. No need for high vigilance.

The water flowed steady. No need to prioritize some parts over others. He didn’t stink, thankfully. But he was stale. And it was a relief not to rush to put clothes back on immediately.

The grime didn’t come off easily. It clung. Days of travel. Nights of restless sleep. Sweat. Dirt. Regret.

His muscles ached. Not just from movement, but from everything that had come before.

The walk through the forest. The silence. The weight of his own thoughts.

He hadn’t wanted to go back there. To the before . To the moment he woke up when he shouldn’t have.

He’d expected to stay dead. Had planned for it. Had tried.

But things refused to go how he wanted. Clarity came cruelly—he wouldn’t be granted that end.

He didn’t believe in fate. Not anymore.

There was no bigger plan guiding him forward. Just motion. Chance.

And that terrified him.

No purpose. No anchor.

But his mind, his body, had brought him here. To Levi.

The last breath of hope he carried.

He leaned forward, hands braced on the wall, water running down his back.

He thought of Levi in the stable. Brushing the mare. Focused. Calm.

He’d seen that look before. On missions. In chaos.

But here, it was different.

Levi wasn’t bracing for impact. He was steadying himself.

And Eren was part of that now.

Was Levi thinking about him? About this moment?

About Eren standing here, running his soap over his body?

Eren shook his head. Hard.

Not yet.

He rinsed off, water cascading down, washing away the last of the soap. His skin felt raw. But clean.

He turned off the tap. The silence hit harder than the water.

He stood there for a moment, dripping, breathing.

His breath stirred the air—soft, invisible currents.

He stepped out, reached for the towel Levi had mentioned. Found it easily in the cupboard. Neatly folded. Of course it was.

He smiled. Just a little.

Then he looked up. Into the mirror.

His face stared back. Gaunt. Skin stretched thin over bone. Eyes tired, though alert. Hair longer than he liked—bangs nearly obscuring his gaze. Stubble thick, verging on a beard.

He looked haggard. Drained. Starved.

That’s what Levi saw.

And still—he was here.

That meant something too.

He dried himself roughly, the towel coarse but welcome against his skin. No longer numb. He left it to dry—next to Levi’s, where it had hung earlier. Another small sign. A closeness of a kind.

He noticed the water he’d left on the floor. Thought he should ask Levi what to use to wipe it. Even now, he considered Levi’s particularity—his order, his quiet rules.

He looked to his clothes, still on the small stool. The same ones he’d peeled off. Putting them back on felt counterproductive. A waste.

His hand gripped the shirt. He grimaced.

Then looked back to the towel.

Fuck it. Levi had thought him good enough to use his bathroom. Human enough to deserve being clean.

He wasn’t going to turn that useless.

He pulled the towel down again, wrapped it around his waist. He had a change of clothes. Better than nothing.

Not clean, not really. But cleaner than before.

He exited the bathroom, leaving the door open. Moved toward the entrance, where his backpack and shoes waited—just as Levi had advised.

The brushing finished, Levi had no need to linger in the stables. Food had been given. Cleaning done. For now, it was all.

He offered a quiet goodbye with one last stroke—her favorite spot, just behind the ear. She nickered, pleased. He accepted it as thanks.

Then he was out. Back to the house. To his guest.

The forest swayed steadily in the wind behind him. No longer looming. Just knowing.

There was nothing waiting for him there. Not now.

His feet carried him forward. The porch groaned under his boot—same board as always. It cried out louder this time.

He’d have to fix it. Sooner rather than later. With added use and weight, it only made sense it could give.

He made note of it. A task for tomorrow.

He was ready to move into the kitchen, to check what they’d do for dinner. But he stopped in his tracks at the entrance.

He faltered.

There was more to see than expected.

Eren.

Skin.

Lots of it.

Back—hard line of a spine. A towel—an excuse for coverage. Pulled taut over waist and ass. Wet hair, some still dripping. A hand rummaging in the backpack.

Last thing Levi noticed, as hard as it was to admit.

Eren didn’t jolt. Didn’t jump upright. He merely turned toward the sound, shirt in hand.

He smiled.

Levi’s breath caught.

He looked tired. But lighter.

It took a beat to steady himself internally. To regroup.

Eren, fully unabashed in his state of undress—fairly so, they’d both been soldiers—shared a small smile that reached his eyes. He straightened, clothes in hand, not covering or shying away.

That would’ve been more unusual.

More unusual than what Levi’s head was doing at the image. Not fully new. But different.

“Didn’t want to put back on the same clothes. Forgot about it before washing.” Eren offered it like explanation. Maybe thought it was needed, given Levi’s pause.

No words came from Levi, so Eren continued.

“I wet the floor. Don’t want to leave it. Is there a rag or something I could use? Will you show me?”

Levi found hold in the practicality.

“Bottom shelf of the cabinet. I can show you. There’s ones for the floor, others for the sink and bathtub, and then for the mirror.”

He ignored the “Of course” Eren offered and moved toward the bathroom.

The smell hit him as he passed the half-naked man. He breathed in deeper on reflex. Regretted it instantly.

His soap. His scent. On Eren.

The retained heat came off him in waves.

It didn’t stop Levi. But the thought crossed his mind.

He walked into the foggy room. Eyes zoned in on the tub.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Water from the shower head still dripping.

The soap in the holder was there. Not the same. Reshaped. Wiser.

He guided himself away from that idea.

Opened the cupboard just as Eren stepped behind him. It felt closer than it was.

Levi showed him what was where. Left him to it.

He would not watch him bend over and wipe his floors. He wasn’t reckless. Nor a voyeur.

He’d said not yet . He meant it.

His brain was just overeager. No contact with others made it more susceptible to physical distraction.

He directed himself away. To dinner.

There were now two to feed. He had to plan differently.

Before he left, Levi’s eyes couldn’t help but linger on Eren’s chest—exactly in his line of sight.

Thinner than he liked. But broad.

He could make sure it wouldn’t waste away further.

It was far too nice for that to happen.

Levi stood in the kitchen, eyes scanning the labeled jars lined neatly on the shelf. He discarded legumes immediately. Too heavy. Too much for a stomach that had likely shriveled from neglect.

Something hearty, yes. But easy to digest.

He crouched down, opening the root cellar tucked beneath the floorboards beside the dry goods cupboard. The cool air met his face as he lifted the wooden hatch.

His legs protested. A quiet ache pulsed through his thighs and knees. He’d skipped his morning stretches. Tension from earlier hadn’t helped.

He winced—internally. Filed it away. Later. After dinner.

He surveyed the cellar. Carrots. Parsnips. Still firm. They’d do.

Cooked in water and tomatoes for broth. A few herbs. Simple.

Protein. Eren needed that.

Levi reached for the cured rabbit meat hanging from a hook. Still good. Salted well.

He nodded to himself. Satisfied.

Ingredients were placed on the counter with quiet precision. He peeled the carrots first, ends sliced off and set aside—for the goats. No waste.

The knife moved steadily. Rhythmic.

Footsteps approached.

Levi didn’t look up immediately. He didn’t need to.

“Had a good bath?” He asked, voice even, as he trimmed the parsnips.

“Yeah. Thank you.” Eren’s voice was softer now. “I feel much better. Hopefully smell better, too.”

Levi glanced sideways.

Eren leaned against the counter, hip propped casually, arms loosely crossed. His hair was tied back—some kind of up-do. Not neat. But intentional.

Levi noticed. Didn’t comment.

“You’ll pass.” He said instead, flicking a parsnip end into the bowl.

Eren chuckled. “High praise.”

Levi didn’t smile. But the corners of his mouth twitched.

Eren reached for a knife. Picked up a carrot. Started slicing.

Levi watched. The angle was wrong. The pressure uneven.

“You’re going to bruise it.”

“It’s a carrot.”

“Still.”

Eren exaggerated the next slice. Purposefully.

Levi raised an eyebrow.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re domestic.”

Levi paused.

Turned slowly.

“Excuse me?”

Eren didn’t flinch. Didn’t tease further.

“I mean it.” He gestured around the kitchen. “This. You. It fits.”

Levi stared. Not defensive. Just… surprised.

Eren continued, quieter now.

“You make it look like something worth doing. Worth noticing.”

Levi didn’t reply. Not immediately.

He turned back to the cutting board. Resumed slicing.

But his grip had shifted. Softer. More aware.

He didn’t say it aloud. But he felt it.

Eren had seen something. Not just the kitchen. Not just the routine.

Something in Levi.

And Levi wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Not yet.

Eren kept watching as Levi peeled the tomatoes, their skins slipping off easily after resting in hot water. Then came the dicing. This time, the right way.

He stayed close as Levi heated the iron skillet. The vegetables hit the pan with a soft hiss. Sizzle. A scent began to rise—earthy, sharp, warm.

Eren asked questions. Too many.

“Why do you fry them first if you’ll cook them later?”

“For better taste. It brings it out.”

“What’s that herb?”

“Rosemary.”

“And this one?” He pointed to another, fingers already reaching to grab it.

Levi caught his hand mid-air.

“Don’t play with food.” The chastisement had no real bite.

“It’s thyme. And you’ve cooked with both, so stop making yourself seem dumber than necessary.”

Eren grinned. Unapologetic.

Levi turned back to the pan.

“Clean the table instead. Set it. You know where I keep bowls and utensils.”

Eren didn’t argue. He moved to the cabinet, opened it, paused.

Levi didn’t look up. But he felt the hesitation.

“You’ve got four sets.” Eren said it like a discovery.

Levi’s hand stilled for a moment.

“Didn’t expect that.”

Levi resumed stirring.

“The lady who sold it needed the money for her son’s doctor. I had the space, so I bought it.”

His voice was flat. Practical.

Eren nodded. Knowingly.

He didn’t press.

Levi didn’t lie. Not about things like that. But he deflected.

Kitchenware was the one thing he’d allowed himself to splurge on. Not for guests. For himself.

It made the place feel like his. Not a military-issued room. A home.

And Eren had caught on. That made Levi feel stripped bare.

Eren chose two bowls—simple, ceramic, slightly mismatched. Set them on the table with care. Utensils followed. Neat. Precise.

Levi watched from the corner of his eye. Approved silently.

The stew simmered now. Low heat. Slow cook.

“It needs about an hour.” Levi said, adjusting the flame.

“You’ve nothing left to do. Find something to entertain yourself with until dinner.”

Dismissive. But not unkind.

Eren didn’t argue. Just nodded.

And stayed close.

The stew simmered quietly, the scent of herbs and meat beginning to fill the kitchen. Levi adjusted the flame once more, then stepped back.

An hour.

He had time.

His thoughts drifted, inevitably, to the stiffness in his legs. The ache had settled deeper now, a dull throb behind the knees and along the lower back.

He’d skipped his morning stretches. Again.

Stress had crept in early. Stayed longer than welcome.

He usually did his routine in the main room—floor space enough to move without knocking into furniture. His bedroom was too cramped. Bed, closet, desk. No room left.

But Eren was here now.

And as much as they’d seen each other train, spar, run, fly—this was different.

This was Levi’s new normal. And exposing that truth felt… raw.

He wasn’t going to hide in the barn to do it. He wasn’t an idiot.

There should be no shame in honing your body. Whatever it needed to function.

But it wasn’t easy. Letting go of the image of being the strongest. That mask had merged with him so fully, there was no separating it without tearing something vital.

Then Eren spoke.

“Ugh, I could help you clean or… maybe you’ve some work that needs doing?” He shifted his weight, glanced toward the window. “I don’t really… have anything on me. Like a book or something.”

Levi looked at him.

What had he expected?

Eren—no longer a soldier. No longer a symbol.

No place. No things. Just a backpack and a blanket.

How purposeless must he feel?

Levi had felt it too. That restlessness. That clawing need to find a new way of being.

Judgment stirred in his head. But Eren wasn’t a man who made light of consequences. Not like that.

So Levi swallowed his pride.

Even if it reminded him of a new-found frailty. A body that had always seemed one step behind shifters in recovery.

He was going to survive one brat potentially making fun of him. Or pitying him.

Either way, if that ever happened—he could go fuck himself.

Levi turned.

“Just because you’re here doesn’t mean I’m your nanny.” He stretched his arms once, testing the pull in his shoulders. “I need to exercise. You can either join or pick your nose for all I care.”

He grimaced.

“Well, maybe not that. Go watch the clouds or something. You’re not putting your snot-covered fingers on anything in this house.”

Eren snorted.

Levi didn’t look back.

He moved toward the main room, already calculating the order of stretches. Back first. Then legs. Then shoulders.

He’d do what he always did. And Eren could watch. Or not.

It didn’t matter.

Not really.

Levi rolled his shoulders once, then again. The joints responded with a dull click. Not painful. Letting themselves be known.

He stepped into the main room, cleared the space with a glance. Floor clean. Enough room.

He began with his back. Slow stretches—arms overhead, spine lengthening, breath steady.

The tension was immediate. A tight pull along the lower vertebrae. He breathed through it.

This wasn’t about priming for combat. Not anymore.

It was about function. About living.

He moved into deeper stretches, legs next. Hamstrings first. Then calves.

The ache was sharper here. Neglect had settled in. He winced—quietly. A soft tsk escaped his lips as one leg trembled under the strain.

He paused. Held the position. Let the muscle speak.

He didn’t push through like before. Didn’t punish.

He listened.

He was his own person. And he needed his body. But there was no need to squeeze every last ounce of strength and pain and blood and sweat.

This was restoration. Consideration. Persistence—with a kinder face.

He moved into squats. Controlled. Deliberate.

Breath in. Lower. Hold. Breath out. Rise.

Again.

And again.

He felt eyes on him.

Eren.

Watching.

Levi didn’t look up. But he felt it.

The gaze followed his motions. Quiet. Focused.

“You gonna keep staring uselessly or what?” He asked mid-squat. “Is squatting that riveting, or you forgot how to do it yourself?”

Eren didn’t take the bait.

“Would you teach me some of the moves you make?” His voice was softer. “They look good for the muscle. Mine could use a stretch.”

Levi looked up.

Something passed behind his eyes. A thought. A question.

Was Eren just Eren now?

What had his body become after all this?

He didn’t regenerate what he didn’t build. Muscle wasting was one thing. But…

Levi didn’t plan to ask. Not now. Wasn’t sure if ever.

Did he even want to know?

Cowardice stirred in his gut. Unpleasant on his tongue. Foreign.

There to protect. Eren. Or himself.

He wasn’t sure.

But the question refused to dissipate.

It forced its way out.

“Your powers?”

Direct.

Eren stilled.

His eyes didn’t widen. Didn’t flinch.

But something in his posture shifted. A breath held. A memory touched.

He shook his head.

Silent. Firm.

No.

Levi nodded.

It wasn’t dismissal. It was confirmation.

Of who he no longer was.

Levi exhaled slowly, the last squat held a moment longer than the rest. He straightened, rolled his shoulders again, then glanced toward Eren.

“Fine. But later then.” He reached for the towel draped over the back of a chair, wiped the sweat from his neck. “I’ll show you. I just didn’t want my legs to lock in before we even got to eat.”

A flicker of something passed between them. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief. But something warmer than silence.

Levi tossed the towel aside and gestured toward the door. “I’d give you a short walkaround the farm instead. Let you know the few animals. You could help with them in the evening and going forward.”

Eren nodded, eager. He followed Levi out into the late afternoon light.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the uneven earth. The air was warm, but not heavy. A breeze stirred the tall grass, rustling softly like whispered secrets.

The barn stood to the left, weathered wood and rusted hinges. Fencing ran in uneven lines, patched in places with rope and stubborn ingenuity. The smell of hay, soil, and animal musk lingered in the air.

Levi walked with purpose, his steps sure. Eren trailed slightly behind, eyes scanning the space, absorbing.

They passed the goat pen first.

Levi pointed with a tilt of his chin. “These little shits—especially the male—are escape artists. Stubborn as hell. I’ve had to haul him back more times than I care to count.”

The goat in question stood near the fence, eyes gleaming with mischief. A patch of fur on his side stuck out like he’d rubbed against something he shouldn’t have. He bleated once, defiantly.

“He’s got a taste for my edible plants. If you see him near the garden, drag him back. Don’t negotiate.”

Eren snorted softly. “Sounds like he’s got a vendetta.”

Levi didn’t disagree.

They moved on to the chicken coop. Wooden slats, some warped, some freshly replaced. Inside, the hens clucked and scratched, feathers puffed and proud.

Levi pointed to one near the back. Her feathers were mottled—black and rust-red, with a sharp glint in her eye.

“That one’ll peck you to death if you give her an opening. Watch your fingers when you pick up eggs.”

She stared at them, unmoving. A silent threat.

“The rest are civil. Feed them, they let you be.” He gestured toward a smaller hen with pale feathers. “That one—she’ll follow you around until you pet her. No idea why. Just does.”

Eren watched as the hen in question waddled toward Levi, pecking lightly at his boot. Levi crouched, gave her a quick scratch behind the head. She cooed, satisfied.

They continued toward the small stable.

Levi’s horse stood in the shade, her coat a deep chestnut, mane braided loosely. She lifted her head as they approached, ears twitching.

Eren stepped forward slowly, hand outstretched.

She shifted away.

Not startled. Just… wary.

Levi stepped in, calm. He moved beside her, hand brushing her neck with practiced ease.

He murmured something under his breath. Eren caught fragments.

“…not sure why he grows on anyone…” “…might be the same with you…”

The horse snorted softly, then allowed Eren to touch her shoulder.

Eren glanced at Levi. “You talk to her often?”

Levi shrugged. “She listens better than most people.”

The breeze picked up again. Leaves rustled. A distant bird called.

They stood there a moment longer. Not speaking. Just being.

The farm around them breathed—wood creaked, animals stirred, the sun dipped lower.

It was domestic. It was quiet. It was something like peace.

They moved to the right side of the house, behind it—an area Eren hadn’t seen from the front.

Levi gestured toward the vegetable and fruit patches, rows of green and gold stretching in uneven lines. Tomatoes, carrots, beans. A few berry bushes. Two apple trees, one older, one still finding its shape.

“Fair bit of work,” Levi said. “But honest. Needed. Worth it.”

Eren nodded, eyes scanning the soil, the leaves, the quiet life growing there.

Levi pointed to the beehives—three, spaced apart, painted in muted tones. “Helps with pollination. Honey too. Makes me more self-sufficient.”

It was a quiet offering. A glimpse into his life. A connection through land.

An invitation.

They circled back toward the porch.

Levi stepped up first, boot landing on the familiar board.

It groaned.

Eren followed.

The board gave.

A dry crack, a squeak, and then—

“Shit—”

Half of Eren’s calf disappeared into the porch. He lost balance. Planted his ass on the floor with a thud.

Silence.

They looked at each other.

Then Eren laughed. Wincing, but laughing.

Levi rubbed a hand over his brow, then his forehead. Resignation.

His mouth twitched.

“Of course it couldn’t wait until tomorrow. And of course it had to be you.” He glanced at the hole. “Your ass too heavy for it, I reckon.”

Eren looked indignant. “Hey! My ass is far from heavy. My head though…” He grinned.

Levi snorted. Openly.

“Go figure. But you often talked out of your ass, so close enough.”

He offered his hand.

Eren took it. Grip strong. Sure. Trusting.

Warmth ran up Levi’s arm.

Eren let go a second too late.

They looked at the ragged hole.

Levi shrugged.

“Not much to it. Was in the books for replacement tomorrow either way. I guess you just helped with finding the weakest spot before removal.”

“Happy to help.” Eren said merrily.

They walked into the house.

The smell of food and herbs greeted them—rich, savory, beckoning.

Levi glanced toward the pot.

“You want to eat now or later? Not much between breakfast and now, but up to you.”

Eren rubbed his leg, still grinning. “I don’t think I can eat yet. An hour from now if okay?”

“It’ll keep warm longer. I’ll just take it off the heat for now, so it doesn’t burn.”

Levi moved to the stove, adjusted the flame, lifted the pot slightly off the heat.

Eren bent to take off his boots, placing them beside Levi’s—lined up neatly.

The hour passed in familiar rhythm.

Levi showed Eren how he did the linen washing—bucket, soap, rinse, wring, hang. Eren took care of his own clothes, hanging them on the line behind the house.

Levi sat at the kitchen table, one of his small leather-bound books open. Food inventory.

He reevaluated what was left. How long it would last with two mouths instead of one.

He made notes. What needed buying next time in the village.

He added a line—Eren might need new clothes. That was going to be a battle.

He could already hear the argument. Already preparing for it.

But for now, it was just a note.

For now, they had time.

This small cocoon, Levi’s cottage and the surrounding grounds, held them.

No nosy neighbors. No interruptions. No questions they weren’t ready to answer.

No scrutiny. No danger.

Eren being back was a worry for later.

Now was quiet.

Now was theirs.

Chapter Text

The dinner was an ordinary affair.

Eren spooned the stew into the prepared bowls and they ate mostly in silence.

Levi appreciated the lack of useless chatter, and from what he could see on Eren’s face, the food hit the mark despite its simplicity.

Eren finished every last drop and cleaned his bowl meticulously—no waste, no hesitation.

Levi approved.

When the dishes were stacked and wiped clean, they found themselves fed but without a plan for what came next.

His leg still ached, the porch board needed fixing, and he wasn’t about to send Eren off alone to hammer in replacements.

He’d shown him enough of every corner of the cottage and grounds for one day.

Better to leave some discoveries for tomorrow—to keep each other from going stir-crazy, and to allow new routines and patterns to emerge naturally.

So they sat back at the empty table, the late light fading behind them, and Levi realized he didn’t know what to do with a guest who had no timetable for leaving.

He wasn’t Eren’s nanny—and the space between them felt too charged to simply drift apart.

Yet sending him off into his own devices on day one felt just as wrong.

Levi considered the options.

He had no pastime hobby suited for two. No chess. No games. Only a modest library tucked into the corner of the living space—half filled with practical books on homesteading, farming, foraging. The other half… less noble.

Trashy light reading he’d picked up at an auction. Cheap covers. Bold fonts. He’d bought them in a moment of resignation, imagining solitary days ahead. He hadn’t vetted them closely.

He hadn’t read much, truth be told. Rusty. After years of combat reports and ration tallies, anything lofty felt like a foreign language.

He glanced toward the shelf. One cover in particular—red, glossy, suggestive—caught his eye.

He looked away.

If Eren stumbled upon it someday, so be it. Rain or snow. Later.

Levi wasn’t speeding anything up.

The knives had been polished recently. The cleaning didn’t need a redo. His horse wouldn’t carry two—not with Eren still a stranger to her.

No trip to the village. No hunting. Time away from the forest sounded wise.

The stretches were best before bed. That had to wait.

His head was empty of ideas.

He looked to Eren.

The younger man sat across from him, arms resting loosely on the table, gaze drifting toward the window.

Outside, the light had dimmed further. The trees swayed gently. The hens had quieted.

Inside, the air was still. Warm. Laced with herbs and wood.

Levi tapped a finger against the table once. Then again.

Eren turned his head, met his eyes.

Levi didn’t speak. Not yet.

He wasn’t sure what he was asking for.

But he was asking.

Eren leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the worn wood of the table. His voice was low, casual—but not careless.

“What time do you usually go to rest?” A pause. “Still a later sleeper and earliest riser? Should I expect a wake-up call before five in the morning?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed faintly, not in irritation, but in thought. The question wasn’t loaded. It was simple. But it carried weight.

Eren wasn’t assuming. He remembered Levi’s old rhythms—how he’d functioned on minimal sleep, always up before the sun, already dressed, already moving. But he wasn’t presuming that was still true.

He was offering Levi space. To decide. To set the tone.

Levi shifted slightly in his seat, the faint creak of wood beneath him. His fingers tapped once more against the table, then stilled.

“I don’t keep it that tight anymore,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but firm. “Still early. But not military early.”

Eren nodded, absorbing that.

“So… not before five,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Good. I’ll take that as a mercy.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his gaze softened.

Eren’s eyes drifted toward the hearth. It stood dark and silent, untouched since the last cool night. But the armchairs nearby—angled just slightly toward each other—held a quiet invitation. A connotation of calm. Of idling time away together.

“I just wanted to know if there’s time after dinner. For anything.” He glanced toward the chairs, then back to Levi. “If you’d rather end the day early, I’ll follow your lead. But if there’s room for something else—talking, reading, even just sitting—I’m open.”

Levi studied him.

Eren wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t asking for entertainment or distraction. He was offering presence. A quiet willingness to share the space, however Levi chose to fill it—or not.

Levi looked toward the shelf again. The books. The silence. The long stretch of evening ahead.

“I don’t do much after dinner,” he said. “Sometimes I read. Sometimes I just sit.”

Eren nodded again, accepting that.

“Then I’ll sit with you,” Eren said simply. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. But if there’s something you do want to say—I’ll listen.”

Levi didn’t answer right away. But something in his posture eased. Just slightly.

Outside, the wind moved through the trees. Inside, the quiet between them wasn’t empty. It was waiting.

Levi stood. His joints protested faintly, but he ignored them. He moved toward the armchairs near the hearth—dark and silent for now, but still a center of the room.

Eren followed, wordless, settling into the chair opposite Levi’s.

Levi sat. Leaned back. Let the silence stretch a little longer.

Then he spoke.

“I have a pension now.”

Eren’s gaze lifted, attentive.

“For supposed dedication and military merits.” Levi’s tone was dry, but not bitter. “Not riches, like any of the pigs in the interior in the past, but… something to live on. Without stressing about starving or not being able to buy a new pair of wool socks for winter.”

A pause.

Levi looked at Eren. Not searching. Just… acknowledging.

“Armin’s doing. The house too. He helped me with the logistics.” He exhaled. “I couldn’t be arsed with the bureaucracy and almost gave up. All the papers. One would think half the places being left to rot would make it easier to simply choose whatever stood empty, but they wanted to avoid future issues.”

He shrugged. “What do I know, though. I’m just glad to have this over with and means to stay here without too much trouble.”

Eren nodded slowly. His expression was unreadable for a moment—something flickering behind his eyes at the mention of Armin. But he didn’t ask. Didn’t press.

Levi noticed. And didn’t mind.

“It’s not too close to any other farm or house. That’s why I chose it.” He glanced toward the window. “No neighbors. No trouble. Just the weather to contend with.”

Eren leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the sides.

“Sounds like you made it yours.” His voice was quiet. “Not just a place to stay. A place to live.”

Levi considered that.

“Eventually.” He admitted. “Took time.”

Eren didn’t speak again right away. But his gaze lingered on Levi’s face. Not prying. Just present.

Levi felt it. And for once, didn’t mind being looked at.

The wind outside had softened, brushing the trees with a quieter rhythm. Inside, the air had settled too—less tense, more lived-in.

Eren shifted slightly in his chair, the worn fabric creaking under him. He glanced at Levi, then spoke.

“How was it, at first?” His voice was low, but not hesitant. “Settling in. The house. The land. Did you know what to do?”

Levi’s brow lifted faintly. Not in mockery—just in thought.

“Not really.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I knew how to clean. That part was easy. But the rest…” He exhaled through his nose. “I had to learn. Trial and error. Mostly error.”

Eren smiled, just a little. “What kind of errors?”

Levi’s mouth twitched.

“Planted potatoes too close together. Didn’t rotate the soil properly. Burned the first batch of bread I tried to bake—smelled like charcoal for two days.” He paused. “I didn’t even know how to fix a leaking pipe. Had to ask a neighbor once. Walk three miles to do that. Didn’t like that. The talking, not the walk.”

Eren chuckled softly. “But you figured it out.”

Levi nodded. “Eventually. I read some manuals. Asked Armin for a few books. Watched how things grew. What didn’t.” He glanced toward the window again, where the moonlight had begun to stretch across the floorboards. “It’s not complicated. Just… consistent. You show up. You do the work. You learn what the land needs.”

Eren’s gaze followed Levi’s. The moonlight was pale and clean, casting soft shadows across the room.

“Sounds like it suits you.”

Levi considered that. His fingers brushed the edge of his chair’s armrest, absently.

“It does.” He looked back at Eren. “Didn’t think it would. But it does.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was full of something else—recognition, maybe. The kind that came not from shared battles, but from shared breath.

Levi leaned back again, his shoulders looser now. The lines around his eyes softened.

Eren didn’t press further. But his presence was steady. And Levi, surprisingly, didn’t mind the company.

The moonlight had shifted as they sat, stretching longer across the floorboards. The room had grown quieter, but not still. Something moved between them—curiosity, tension, the slow unfurling of thought.

Eren leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady.

“I wonder… what would suit me.” He spoke softly, not to fill the silence, but to shape it. “How was it to find that out? That this was something you enjoyed?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. His fingers tapped once against the armrest, then stilled.

He looked at Eren. At the way his brow furrowed—not in frustration, but in thought. At the way his body leaned in, searching.

Levi’s mind flicked through images. Not of Eren, but of others. How many of them were out there now, trying to learn how to live without fighting at their core? How many had been stripped of normalcy? How many had no idea who they were without a knife or a gun in their hand?

And Eren was asking.

What was he supposed to say?

Was this where he encouraged?

It wasn’t that simple. Even though it should have been.

Levi exhaled.

“Hadn’t really known that coming into it.”

Eren’s response was quick, almost instinctive.

“Sure. But that’s not what I asked.” He sat up straighter. “If you don’t want to say, that’s fine. That’s your right. Just… how will I know I’m where I should be?”

Levi’s jaw tightened slightly. Not in anger. Just in the way frustration settled when words didn’t come easy.

“Don’t get me wrong, brat.” He shifted in his seat. “This—here. It may suit me now, but it wasn’t smooth sailing. And I don’t mean the errors and the learning.” He glanced toward the window, then back. “Sometimes I still wonder what I’m doing here, playing house. My hands itch for action.”

Eren nodded slowly. “There would’ve always been something, someone, had you stayed in the city.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed.

“That, I knew I was done with.”

A beat passed.

Eren’s voice was quieter now.

“That’s the thing. How did you ignore that itch? You just up and went and it got left behind?”

Levi’s hand gripped the armrest. Not hard. Just enough to feel the texture.

“Were you listening, brat?” His tone sharpened. “It’s not something that leaves you. You learn to ignore it.”

Eren tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well, sounds like you learnt it well, then.”

Levi scoffed.

“Fuck, you’re really clueless sometimes, Jaeger.” He leaned forward. “Do you choose when to be, or does it come naturally?”

Eren blinked.

“What? Why?”

Levi didn’t wait.

“If you can’t fly, you run. And if you can’t run, you walk.” His voice was low, firm. “I couldn’t do any of those for a while. That put a damper on things. Any ideas about scratching anything I couldn’t physically reach—gone.”

He sat back again.

“So there you go. Circumstances sometimes make the decision for you.” A pause. “I was just lucky enough to find out I enjoy what I’ve been dealt.”

Eren watched him. Didn’t interrupt.

Levi gestured vaguely toward the window.

“I just chose between staying away from people in the city or the country. The latter seemed easier.” He looked at Eren. “Happy?”

Eren didn’t smile. But his eyes softened.

“Not happy. But I understand.”

Levi nodded once. That was enough.

A moment passed.

Each of them in their own head.

Eren wasn’t done yet.

Levi had really brought it on himself, though. It was a direct replication of you reap what you sow .

Eren’s voice broke the quiet.

“When I… woke up, I didn’t know who I was for a while.”

Levi didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He knew exactly what Eren meant. And it wasn’t something you interrupted.

Eren continued, gathering his thoughts like scattered leaves.

“I think it was easier at first. Not to remember. Not to know.” His fingers curled loosely around the edge of the chair. “But now I do. And I’m still here. So I keep thinking… what am I here for, you know?”

The question wasn’t posed to Levi. Not really.

Levi didn’t try to answer.

The moonlight had shifted again, casting a pale line across Eren’s face. He looked older in it. Not aged. Just… worn.

“And deep down I know you’re right.” Eren’s voice was steadier now. “There isn’t a plan or a reason. The circumstances brought me here, too. And now it’s what I decide to do with it.”

Levi’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I see you having put your roots down,” Eren said. “And it feels… like I could stand my ground too. Just maybe. And it feels right, here, with you, even now. From day one.”

He paused. His throat worked around the next words.

“But then what actual right do I have to this?” A breath. “So maybe I don’t. I shouldn’t. And it’s just too much I’m asking, to hope…”

His voice dropped.

“And I was wrong before.”

Levi didn’t speak immediately.

He looked at Eren. Really looked.

At the way his shoulders had curled inward. At the way his eyes didn’t meet Levi’s now, fixed instead on the floor.

Levi leaned forward slightly.

“You’re not asking for anything.” His voice was low. Measured.

“You’re here. That’s all.”

Eren looked up.

Levi held his gaze.

“And if it feels right, then maybe that’s enough for now.”

No promises. No declarations.

Just truth. Simple. Unadorned.

Eren nodded. Slowly.

And Levi sat back again. Let the quiet return.

But it wasn’t the same quiet as before.

It was softer. Shared.

There were no more words exchanged as they allowed themselves to settle into calmness.

Ten minutes or an hour might have passed.

The shift of time was marked not by clock, but by the outside world changing behind the window, as it always did.

First, the moon announced the night’s creep in, with the sun still lingering on the horizon. Then twilight took over. Then early night.

Levi felt weariness begin to take hold. Palpably. His muscles heavier. His eyelids slower.

Sleep didn’t come easily. But the body still demanded it.

Teaching Eren first, though. Before night ablutions. Before bed.

He was a man of his word. And keeping his bedtime stretching was priming himself for a better day.

Without preamble, he announced it.

“You wanted to know, so get up. I’ll show you now.” He stood, joints murmuring their usual protest. “I have yet to keel over despite all the busted joints and ligaments, so some of it must be working.”

It felt easier to admit in passing now. After everything they’d shared. No need to censor himself.

Eren rose, curious, attentive.

They moved to the main room, where the floor was clear and the light was soft—lamplight now, warm and low.

Levi rolled his shoulders once, then again. He began with his lower back.

“Start here,” he said, voice steady. “Back’s the anchor. If it goes, everything else follows.”

He bent forward slowly, arms reaching toward the floor, spine lengthening.

Eren mirrored him, less fluid, more hesitant.

Levi glanced sideways.

“You’re already stiff. At your age. That’s promising.”

Eren snorted.

“I didn’t stretch before bed in the barracks, Levi. We were lucky to sleep at all.”

“Excuses.” Levi held the stretch, then rose slowly. “You’ll thank me when you’re not hobbling by thirty.”

They moved to calves and ankles next.

Levi leaned into the wall, one leg extended behind, heel pressed down.

“Calves carry more than you think. Ankles too. You ignore them, they’ll remind you.”

Eren followed, adjusting his stance.

Levi watched. Corrected.

“Not like that. You’re leaning too far. You’re not trying to break the wall.”

Eren adjusted, muttering something under his breath.

Levi didn’t ask.

They shifted to hands next.

Levi flexed his fingers deliberately, then rotated his wrists.

“These get tight. Especially with old injuries. You stretch them, you keep them useful.”

Eren copied the motion, slower.

Levi stepped closer, adjusted the angle of Eren’s wrist.

Their hands brushed.

Eren looked up.

Levi didn’t flinch. Just nodded.

“Better.”

They moved through the rest in quiet rhythm.

Levi’s body moved with practiced ease. Eren’s with effort, but growing familiarity.

At one point, Levi paused.

Watched Eren try a deeper stretch.

“You’re not going to snap in half, are you?”

“Not yet.” Eren grinned. “But if I do, I’ll blame you.”

Levi rolled his eyes.

“Figures. I teach you something useful, and I get accused of spinal damage.”

Eren laughed softly.

They finished with a final stretch—arms overhead, spine long, breath steady.

Levi held it. Then lowered his arms.

He looked at Eren.

“Still here. Teaching you something.”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud.

But he did.

Eren met his gaze.

“Still here. Learning from you.”

Levi nodded once.

It was enough.

The house had settled into its usual nighttime hum. Richer with one person's presence. 

Eren sat cross-legged near the armchairs, his blanket folded beside him, flask and knife within reach. The floor was hardwood, cool and unforgiving.

He’d washed-up first with Levi stepped out to milk the goat that had been forgotten in the morning. Thankfully, she hadn’t been cranky. She would have been had he left her till morning. 

Once back, he’d been quick to follow in Eren’s steps and make ready for bed with the usual efficiency. 

Eren had left the bathroom neat. Levi had noticed while washing his teeth. It had occurred to him that maybe all the nagging in the past now brought more fruits of his labour. He had to thank his past self for the foresight. 

Once he’d come out the smaller room, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp and darker than usual he paused at the threshold of his bedroom, hand on the frame.

"You’re not sharing the bed. That hasn’t changed."

Eren didn’t look up. Just nodded, quiet.

"I didn’t expect to."

Levi lingered a moment longer. His eyes flicked to the blanket, then to the hard floor, then back to Eren—who was already arranging his things with the resigned efficiency of someone used to making do.

A sigh escaped Levi, barely audible.

He turned, disappeared into his room, and returned with a folded blanket and a pillow—plain, utilitarian, but clean.

He dropped them beside Eren without ceremony.

" Floor’s hard. Use these. You’ll still wake up sore, but less miserable."

Eren looked up, surprised. Not by the gesture, but by the fact that Levi had bothered.

"Thanks."

Levi didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Eren lay on his side, the blanket tucked beneath his cheek, the pillow firm but clean. The fabric held a faint scent—something herbal, sharp, familiar. It was the same as the towel in the bathroom, the same as Levi’s shirt when he’d passed close earlier. 

He didn’t know what the soap was called, but he knew it was Levi’s. That was enough. He hadn’t expected the gesture. Not really. Levi wasn’t one for softness. But the blanket had been folded, the pillow clean. Not tossed, not begrudged. Offered. Eren closed his eyes, the scent grounding him more than the floor beneath him. He didn’t feel warm, exactly. But he didn’t feel cold either.

Levi settled into bed with practiced ease, the blanket pulled up to his chin, the room steeped in its usual quiet. 

The scent of soap flakes lingered—sharp, clean, familiar. He’d washed the bedding last week, same batch he’d used for the spare blanket. 

A thought flickered. 

Would Eren notice? 

Levi frowned at himself. It didn’t matter. 

Still, he imagined Eren lying there, wrapped in that same scent, breathing it in without knowing. Or maybe knowing. 

He exhaled slowly, eyes on the ceiling. The house felt fuller tonight. Not louder. Just... less empty.

Chapter Text

Morning was rather uneventful.

Somehow, they had already started creating a routine for two that mirrored the day prior. Just without the drama.

It included a quick freshen-up, this time not forgone morning stretches—much needed also for Eren, on account of getting close and familiar with the floor throughout the night.

If Levi felt a misplaced satisfaction at Eren not being able to touch his toes, he kept it to himself. Decided to be the bigger man.

Animals ate first, as they usually did. Eren followed him dutifully, observing how Levi went about it—how he portioned feed, checked water, moved with quiet efficiency. Eren didn’t ask questions yet. Just watched. Filed things away.

They fueled up with simple cheese and cured ham sandwiches, the bread a little on the staler side but still good enough to eat. They were used to not wasting food.

The kitchen was quiet save for the occasional scrape of knife against board, the soft clink of ceramic. Outside, the wind stirred the trees gently, and the hens clucked in low, rhythmic bursts.

And then, thankfully, there was an easy way to occupy themselves for a chunk of the morning.

The porch needed mending, after all.

Levi stepped outside first, squinting against the light. The boards creaked underfoot, one in particular groaning like an old man with a grudge.

“We’ll start with the worst of it,” he said, already crouching to inspect the damage. “That one’s been threatening to give out for weeks.”

Eren followed, arms crossed, eyes scanning the planks.

“How do you know what to fix first?”

Levi glanced up.

“You listen. You step. You learn which ones complain the loudest.”

Eren crouched beside him, mimicking the posture.

“Did you learn all this before coming here?”

Levi shook his head.

“No. I learned it because I had to. You don’t get to ignore a broken porch when it’s the only thing between you and a muddy fall.”

He stood, brushing dust from his knees, and moved toward the shed.

Eren followed again, watching as Levi pulled out a small stack of replacement boards, a hammer, and a tin of nails.

The shed was neat—tools hung with precision, everything in its place. The air inside smelled of sawdust and old metal.

“You built all this?” Eren asked, gesturing vaguely at the shed, the porch, the house beyond.

Levi handed him the hammer.

“Some of it. Some I fixed. Some I cursed at until it stopped falling apart.”

Eren smirked.

“Sounds like a solid strategy.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his eyes held a flicker of amusement.

They returned to the porch, tools in hand, the boards stacked neatly beside them.

Levi knelt again, tapping the wood with practiced fingers.

“We’ll replace the few that need it most,” he said, running a hand along the edge of a splintered plank. “Seems the ones close to the one that broke are in similar state. I'd rather not risk a repeat.”

He straightened, rolling his shoulder with a quiet crack.

“Not sure my ankle would take it as well as your ass did yesterday.”

Eren snorted.

Levi handed him the hammer.

“You can help if you prove you don’t hammer like a drunk.”

Eren raised the tool, inspecting it like it might bite.

“No promises.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his eyes held a flicker of amusement.

They settled beside each other, the morning stretching ahead, quiet but purposeful.

The first step was removing the old boards.

Levi handed Eren a pry bar and gestured toward the edge of the porch.

“Start with that one. Wedge it under and lean your weight into it. Don’t fight it—just coax it loose.”

Eren nodded, crouching low. The wood groaned as he worked the bar beneath it, muscles taut with effort. It gave with a reluctant crack, splinters scattering like dry leaves.

Levi watched from the side, arms folded.

“Not bad.” He knelt beside him, working on the next board. “You’ve got decent leverage. Most people try to muscle it. You didn’t.”

Eren glanced over, surprised by the praise.

“I figured it’s more about angle than force.”

Levi gave a quiet hum of approval, pulling the board free with a practiced twist.

The rhythm settled in—wood creaking, nails clinking into the tin, the occasional grunt of effort. Dust rose in lazy spirals, catching the morning light. The scent of old pine and rusted iron hung in the air.

They worked in tandem, Eren quick to mirror Levi’s movements, asking the occasional question about spacing, about how to tell if a board was salvageable, about why some nails were bent and others weren’t.

Levi answered without impatience, his voice low and steady.

“You learn by doing. And by screwing up. Which you will.”

Eren smirked.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Just setting expectations.”

Once the old boards were stacked aside, Levi laid out the replacements, measuring the gaps with a worn tape and marking the cut lines with chalk.

Eren watched closely, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Levi noticed it—how focused he was. Not just eager, but intent. Like he was trying to memorize every step.

There was something in that kind of attention Levi respected. Even if it came wrapped in impatience.

They began placing the new boards, Levi guiding the alignment, Eren holding them steady.

Then came the hammering.

Eren took the first nail, lined it up, and struck.

Too hard. Too fast.

The nail bent sideways, a sharp angle jutting like a broken limb.

Eren froze.

Levi didn’t speak.

He looked at the nail. Then at Eren. Then at the hammer in his hand.

The silence stretched.

Then—

“If you hammer like that again, I’ll make you sleep under it.”

Eren blinked, then let out a breath that was half a laugh.

“Right. Got it.”

Levi reached for another nail, handed it over.

“Try again. This time, aim like you’re not trying to kill it.”

“Yeah. Okay. I can do that… I’m pretty sure.”

He didn’t sound sure to Levi. But it was the outcome that mattered. So he didn’t confiscate the hammer.

Eren adjusted his grip, lined up the next nail with more care. His brow furrowed, tongue pressed lightly to the inside of his cheek in concentration.

The first strike was gentler. The second, more precise.

The nail sank cleanly.

Eren blinked at it. Then looked up at Levi, a grin spreading across his face—unfiltered, boyish, almost gleeful.

Levi didn’t comment. But he watched.

There was something in that expression—unburdened, proud, alive. It tugged at something quiet in him. 

Eren moved on to the next board, repeating the process with growing confidence.

Levi handed him another nail.

“Not hopeless, then. Good. I’d rather not have to redo the whole thing.”

Eren smirked.

“You say that like you wouldn’t redo it just to prove you could do it better.”

Levi didn’t deny it.

They worked through the rest in steady rhythm, the boards settling into place with satisfying clicks and thuds. The sun had climbed higher, casting sharp shadows across the porch. Sweat gathered at the nape of Levi’s neck, but the air was still cool enough to keep it bearable.

When the last nail was hammered in, Levi stood and stretched, spine cracking in protest.

Eren followed suit, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

They stepped back together, surveying the finished work.

The porch looked solid again. No groaning boards. No threat of collapse.

Levi nodded once.

“It’ll hold.”

Eren looked at him, then at the boards.

“We did good.”

Levi didn’t argue.

And for a moment, they just stood there—two men, one porch, and a morning well spent.

They washed up quickly after the porch was done—hands scrubbed clean, sweat rinsed from necks and forearms. The sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the yard, the air warming just enough to hint at late spring’s generosity.

Levi dried his hands on the towel hanging by the door, then glanced toward the garden patch behind the house.

“I was thinking asparagus with a few potatoes and egg on the side for dinner,” he said, casual. “It’s the season, and I’ve got some in the garden. So it’d be fresh.”

Eren blinked.

“Asparagus?” He said the word like it was foreign. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. Or eaten it.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, then reached for the small basket hanging near the door.

“Figures.” He stepped outside, Eren trailing behind. “I forget sometimes how repetitive things were in the barracks. Not that I ever complained. Knowing I’d get to eat every day felt like more than enough.”

They moved to the right side of the house, behind it—an area Eren hadn’t seen from the front until the day before.

The garden stretched out in quiet, uneven rows, familiar now: vegetables thriving in the soil, berry bushes tucked between patches, the apple trees casting dappled shade nearby. The beehives stood at their usual distance, their muted colors blending into the landscape, a soft hum threading through the air.

Levi gestured toward a patch nestled between the beans and berries—tall, spindly stalks with tight green tips.

“Seems you’ll be up for a treat then. Not sure if you’ll like ’em, but may be worth a try.” He crouched, cutting a few stalks with practiced ease. “The prior owner had these planted. Not sure how they came across the seeds, but I was lucky to get the house with those and a few other things ready for harvest.”

Eren knelt beside him, watching.

“Do they take long to grow? How do they look when they start?”

Levi handed him a stalk.

“Not when they’re fully grown in. Once the weather hits, they grow like crazy. I usually pick them daily for a while.” He pointed to the base of the plant. “They shoot up fast. You’ll see.”

Eren turned the stalk in his hand, inspecting it like a weapon he hadn’t trained with.

Levi smirked.

“You’re not supposed to stab anyone with it.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good. They’re better roasted.”

They moved through the patch together, Levi guiding Eren on which stalks were ready, which needed another day. The rhythm was easy—cut, collect, move. The breeze stirred the leaves, and the scent of soil clung to their hands.

Levi glanced at Eren once, catching the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way he mimicked Levi’s movements with quiet determination.

There was something in that—something steady. Something that made Levi’s chest feel less tight.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed Eren the basket when they were done.

“You did fine.”

Eren looked up, surprised.

“Thanks.”

Levi turned back toward the house.

Dinner would be simple. But earned.

They returned from the garden with the basket half full—green stalks nestled beside a few sprigs of herbs Levi had snipped on the way back. Inside, the kitchen was already warm from the afternoon sun, the light slanting across the counter where the potatoes waited.

Levi set the basket down and nodded toward the sink.

“You know where the knives are.”

Eren didn’t answer, just moved to the drawer and pulled two out without hesitation. The rhythm was easier now—no fumbling, no second-guessing. They both peeled with the quiet efficiency of people who’d done it a hundred times before, even if it had always been in a mess hall, surrounded by clatter and orders barked over steam.

With two people they were peeled in no time.

Once done, Levi rinsed the asparagus, laying them out on a clean towel.

“You don’t eat the whole stalk,” he said, picking one up and snapping the end off with a practiced motion. “Bottom part’s too tough. You want the top two-thirds, maybe less if it’s thick.”

Eren watched, then mimicked the motion—tentative at first, then more sure.

“Like this?”

“That’ll do.”

The potatoes went into the pot, water already boiling. Levi added a pinch of salt, then turned back to the counter.

“Thinner stalks cook fast. Just a few minutes in boiling water, then cold rinse. Keeps the color. Keeps the bite.”

Eren nodded, setting the trimmed asparagus aside.

“Then what?”

“Roast with the potatoes. Bit of onion, garlic. If your stomach’s up for it.”

Levi said it without looking up, but the question hung there—quiet, direct, unmistakably considerate.

Eren paused.

“I think I’m good. Been feeling fine since yesterday.”

Levi gave a short nod, already reaching for the onion.

There was no ceremony to it—just the kind of domestic choreography that came from knowing what needed doing and trusting the other to keep pace.

“You’ll fry the eggs,” Levi said, handing Eren the pan. “You were always decent at that.”

Eren blinked, surprised by the comment.

“You remember that?”

Levi shrugged.

“Hard to forget the one kid who didn’t burn them or break the yolks every damn time.”

It wasn’t sentimental, not exactly. But it landed with a quiet weight, a thread pulled from the past and laid gently into the present.

Eren cracked the eggs with steady hands, the sizzle filling the kitchen as Levi slid the tray of vegetables into the oven.

The air filled with the scent of roasting garlic, the sharpness of onion mellowing in heat. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the garden they’d just left.

No one said much after that. But the silence wasn’t empty. It was filled with the sound of things falling into place.

The widening of Eren’s eyes and the hum of satisfaction at dinner made Levi proud in a way he refused to examine.

And so he didn’t.

Any post-dinner boredom was prevented by washing windows. Supplies were brought out, cloths distributed, and each of them got assigned a set to work on. The next two hours passed in quiet rhythm—wash, dry, polish. The glass caught the fading light, throwing soft reflections across the floor.

Levi had no doubt Eren could meet expectations. He’d inspected his work many times in the past and never found it wanting. Said as much this time, many years later.

All said and done, Eren went to get rid of the water and take a piss, if the closed door was any indication.

The shout that followed would’ve been alarming, had it not carried a note of disbelief rather than fear.

“What the actual fuck?”

It rang out clear, echoing slightly off the hallway walls.

Levi paused mid-fold of the drying cloth, brows lifting.

For a moment, he wondered what could account for such an energetic expletive while taking a leak. Hopefully no blood was involved. Hopefully nothing got broken.

He didn’t move. Didn’t ask.

The water ran. The door opened.

Eren emerged, face wrinkled in confusion, eyes narrowed like he’d just seen something unnatural.

Levi really didn’t want to ask.

But Eren didn’t wait.

Apparently Levi’s bluntness was rubbing off.

“Levi… what did I eat?” He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. “Has that asparagus made me sick? Why the hell am I pissing liquid sulphur?”

Levi blinked once.

“You’re not sick.”

“You sure? Because that smell—”

“It’s the asparagus.” Levi turned back to the cloth, folding it with deliberate calm. “Some people metabolize it that way. Smell changes. Color too, sometimes.”

Eren stared at him.

“And you didn’t think to mention that?”

Levi shrugged.

“Didn’t think you’d panic over piss.”

Eren muttered something under his breath, retreating toward the armchairs.

Levi didn’t catch all of it, but he was fairly certain it included the words sulphur , betrayal , and vegetables .

He allowed himself a small smirk.

Dinner had been a success. And apparently, so was the science experiment that followed.

If he had the same reaction as Eren the first time he’d eaten the greens, that was his to keep.

The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the yard. The air was cooler now, tinged with the scent of hay and the faint musk of animals settling in for the night.

Levi led the way to the small enclosure near the shed, where the goat waited—already restless, hooves shifting against the packed earth.

“She’s used to me,” Levi said, grabbing the stool and bucket. “You’re a stranger. Don’t take it personally if she tries to kick you.”

Eren raised an eyebrow.

“That’s comforting.”

Levi crouched beside the goat, murmured something low and unintelligible, then began the process with practiced ease—hands steady, movements economical. The milk hit the bucket with soft, rhythmic splashes.

“You try.” He stood, handed Eren the stool and stepped back.

Eren hesitated.

“This feels… weird.”

“It is. You get over it.”

Eren sat, reached out, and the goat turned her head sharply, eyes wide with suspicion.

“She’s glaring at me.”

“She’s assessing your competence.”

Eren reached again, tried to mimic Levi’s grip, but his fingers were awkward, unsure. The goat shifted, then jerked her leg, knocking the bucket sideways.

Milk splashed onto Eren’s boot.

“Shit—”

Levi didn’t move. Just watched, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Eren tried again, this time with more determination. The goat let out a disgruntled bleat and shifted again, nearly knocking Eren off the stool.

Levi exhaled slowly.

“You didn’t kill it. That’s a start.”

Eren looked up, flushed and slightly breathless.

“She’s got it out for me.”

“She’s got standards.”

Eren adjusted his grip, tried again, and this time managed a few weak streams into the bucket.

Levi stepped forward, crouched beside him.

“You’re pulling too high. Start lower. Gentle pressure. You’re not trying to wring out a rag.”

Eren followed the instruction, brow furrowed in concentration.

The goat shifted again, but didn’t kick.

Levi watched the scene unfold, the awkwardness, the effort, the quiet determination.

He’d said Eren would screw up. And he had. But he was learning.

Levi found himself almost amused. Almost.

“You’ll get better.” He stood, brushing his hands off. “Assuming she doesn’t file a formal complaint.”

Eren snorted.

“I’ll write her an apology.”

The goat bleated again, unimpressed.

The bucket filled slowly. The sky darkened.

And Levi, for once, didn’t mind the mess.

The bathroom was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of the hallway light spilling in through the cracked door. Levi stood at the sink, the quiet hum of the night pressing in around him.

There was another toothbrush now. Wooden, plain. Set beside his own, leaning slightly in the cup. Two towels hung from the rack—his, and one that wasn’t. Eren’s. Still damp from earlier use.

The floor was wet when he stepped in. Not soaked, just enough to catch the edge of his heel and remind him: someone else had been here. The soap smelled faintly different. Still the same bar, but it carried the touch of another person now. It was strange. Not unwelcome. Just strange.

He washed quickly, methodically, but slower than usual. The kind of pace that came not from fatigue, but from the quiet that settles after a day well spent. His thoughts didn’t race. They wandered.

When he stepped out, the main room was quiet. The armchairs cast soft shadows in the low light, and behind them, Eren lay curled on the floor, blanket pulled up to his shoulder, the pillow Levi had tossed him the night before tucked under his head.

Levi paused. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Goodnight.”

Soft. Unexpected.

Levi blinked, barely a shift in his expression.

“Night.”

He moved on, door clicking shut behind him.

He hadn’t shared that simple exchange in what felt like years. Probably had been. He’d almost forgotten one did that.

Morning came slow.

The kind of quiet that lingered, stretching itself across the floorboards and into the corners of the house. Levi had risen early, as always, but the silence felt different today. Less hollow.

He moved through the motions—water boiling, kettle whistling, the faint creak of the old cabinet as he reached for the cups. Eren stirred not long after, blanket folded neatly, pillow set aside. No words at first. Just a nod. But it was enough.

Outside, the air was crisp, dew still clinging to the grass. The barn stood quiet, the animals rustling softly within.

Levi led the way, boots crunching over gravel. Eren followed, a step behind, hands tucked into his sleeves.

The mare was already awake, head lifted as they approached. She didn’t shy away this time. Didn’t stamp or toss her head.

Levi watched her carefully.

“She remembers you.” A pause. “Didn’t expect that.”

Eren stepped closer, slow and deliberate. The mare blinked, then lowered her head slightly, nostrils flaring.

“She’s not glaring at me. That’s progress, right?”

Levi gave a quiet grunt.

“She’s not trying to bite you. That’s progress.”

Eren reached out, tentative fingers brushing against the mare’s neck. She didn’t flinch.

Levi leaned against the stall, arms folded.

“She’s picky. Doesn’t warm up easy.”

“Sounds familiar.”

Levi didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

The mare shifted, nudged Eren’s shoulder lightly. He blinked, surprised.

“Did she just—”

“She’s testing you.” Levi stepped forward, ran a hand down her flank. “She does that when she’s deciding if you’re worth her time.”

Eren laughed softly.

“Guess I passed the first round.”

Levi didn’t say it, but he was watching. The way Eren moved. The way the mare responded.

It was subtle. But it was there.

Another small shift.

The mare’s ears flicked forward as Levi unlatched the stable door, her hooves shifting with quiet impatience. She’d been inside long enough. Without a word, Levi reached for the halter hanging by the post, and Eren, catching on, stepped aside to let him work. 

Together, they led her out past the gate, across the wide path that split the property, and into the meadow that stretched toward the tree line. The fencing there was modest—just enough to keep her from wandering too far, but open enough that anyone could pass through without trouble. 

Levi didn’t bother locking the gate; he never did. The land was his, but it wasn’t meant to be closed off. As the mare lowered her head to graze, Eren leaned against the fence, watching her with quiet fascination.

“She’s calmer now,” he said.

Levi nodded, eyes still on the horse. “She’ll be fine out here for a while.”

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of wind brushing through grass and the soft crunch of hooves. Then Eren spoke again, hesitant.

“You said you don’t have games for two. But maybe… maybe there’s something else we could do?”

Levi glanced at him, one brow raised. “Like what?”

Eren shrugged, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. Something that doesn’t need a board or pieces. Just… something.”

Levi considered that, the corners of his mouth twitching in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. “I might have an idea.”

They returned from the meadow slowly, the mare left to graze under the soft watch of the afternoon sun. The house felt cooler by contrast, shadows stretching across the floorboards as the light shifted.

Eren lingered in the main room, settling into one of the armchairs with a quiet thump. Levi didn’t speak—just walked past him, into the bedroom, the door left ajar.

He knelt beside the bed, fingers reaching beneath it until they found the edge of the old trunk. It scraped softly against the wood as he pulled it out. The latch stuck for a moment, then gave with a dry click.

Inside, a leather pouch lay tucked between a folded blanket and a few other odds and ends—things he hadn’t touched in months. Maybe years.

He set the pouch on the bed, then crossed to the desk. The drawer gave a reluctant creak as he opened it, revealing a stack of unused bristol board—thick, slightly yellowed at the edges. He’d bought it once, thinking he might try model-building. That idea had lasted all of two afternoons before he’d decided he didn’t have the patience for glue and miniature precision.

Still, the paper had stayed.

He found the packet of charcoal tucked behind a jar of dried ink, the paper wrapping smudged and soft from age. He paused a moment, wondering where he’d even picked it up. A market stall, maybe. Or one of those supply runs where he’d grabbed things without thinking, just in case.

He gathered everything and stepped back into the main room.

Eren looked up, brows raised at the assortment in Levi’s hands.

“Are we drawing things?” He tilted his head, amused. “I’m not opposed, but I can already tell you—I’ll probably be really rubbish at it.”

Levi set the pouch down on the table, then laid the bristol board beside it, smoothing the edges with one hand.

“We’re not drawing.” He opened the pouch, revealing a handful of small, carved pieces—wooden, worn smooth with time. “We’re playing.”

Eren leaned forward, eyes scanning the items Levi had laid out. The thick bristol board, the charcoal packet, the leather pouch still holding the pieces.

“Are we… making the board ourselves?” His voice carried a note of amusement, but not mockery.

Levi gave a short nod, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Astute as always.”

He picked up the charcoal, the paper wrapping crinkling under his fingers. The moment he touched the tip to his hand, it left a smear—dark, dry, and stubborn. He grimaced, rubbing his thumb against his palm, then laid the bristol board flat on the table.

A pause.

Then he began to draw, attempting straight lines across the surface. The first came out uneven, the second worse—slightly bowed, like the board itself had warped under his hand.

He stopped, looked at his fingers again, then at the lines. A quiet sigh escaped him, followed by a soft tsk .

“It may be better if you do it,” he said, turning toward Eren. “Anything else is fine, but precision drawing is not really my forte anymore.”

He didn’t say it with bitterness. Just a dry acceptance. His hands weren’t what they used to be—too many years of strain, of gripping blades and reins and gear. The fine motor control had dulled, not catastrophically, but enough. 

Enough to make straight lines feel like a chore. The missing fingers didn’t exactly help. He could use both for most tasks, but for drawing neither cut it. Not like he was ever good at it in the first place. 

Eren didn’t hesitate. He slid the board toward himself, picked up the charcoal, and tested it against the edge of the paper. His first line came out clean, deliberate. Then another, perfectly parallel.

Levi watched, arms crossed loosely.

“You shouldn’t lie about not being able to do shit,” he said. “You’re obviously good at this.”

Eren smirked, not looking up. “That’s hardly a work of art. I’m just filling in squares.” He shaded in the alternating ones with careful strokes, the charcoal gliding smoothly under his hand. “I’ll draw for you once if you think I’m bluffing. Maybe make you a portrait?”

He glanced up, eyes glinting. “I’m sure you’d regret your suspicion instantly. Or… maybe you’d find it a frame and put it over the mantle. Who knows…”

Levi snorted. “If it’s accurate, I’d probably burn it.”

Eren laughed, the sound light and unbothered. “Then I’ll make sure it flatters you. Give you a heroic jawline.”

Levi didn’t reply immediately. He just watched as Eren continued to draw, the board slowly taking shape—clean lines, shaded squares, a grid emerging with quiet precision.

The room felt still, but not silent. The scratch of charcoal, the occasional shift of weight, the low hum of something shared.

Not art. Not exactly. But something made together.

Eren finished shading the last square, brushing a bit of charcoal dust off the edge of the board. It wasn’t perfect, but it was clean—symmetrical, functional, and far better than Levi’s earlier attempt.

Levi leaned in, inspecting the lines with a critical eye. Then gave a short nod.

“That’ll do.”

He looked at Eren, one brow raised.

“Now I think about it, you actually know how to play this?”

Eren hesitated.

“Well… I saw Armin play? Does that count?” He scratched the back of his neck. “To be honest though, hadn’t the patience at the time to learn from him.”

Levi smirked.

“And now you’ve got patience, is what you’re saying?”

Eren shrugged.

“I’ve got fewer distractions. And you’re less likely to give me a lecture than Armin.”

Levi didn’t comment on that. He opened the pouch and began placing the carved pieces onto the board—simple shapes, some marked with faint symbols, others worn smooth from use.

“Main rules are simple,” he said. “Each piece moves in a specific way. You capture by landing on the same square. No jumping unless it’s a designated piece. No skipping turns. No whining.”

Eren leaned in, studying the layout.

“What’s this one?” He pointed to a squat piece with a carved ridge.

“Defender. Moves one square in any direction. Good for blocking.”

“And this?”

“Commander. Diagonal only. Fast, but fragile.”

Eren nodded slowly, absorbing the information about each figure.

Levi watched him as he did, then added—

“The rest you’ll learn by playing. I’ll tell you if you do something stupid.”

Eren grinned.

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

They began the first round, Levi guiding Eren’s hand once or twice, correcting a move with a tap of the finger.

“You can’t move that there. It’s not a horse.”

“It looks like a horse.”

“It’s not.”

Eren laughed, adjusted the piece, and kept going.

Levi let the round play out, offering occasional commentary, dry and pointed.

When Eren tried to move a piece backward across the board, Levi raised a hand.

“Instructional’s over. Now play like a big boy.”

Eren snorted.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“I’m learning. Like everything else.”

Levi paused, then nodded.

“Fair.”

He watched Eren’s next move, then added—

“At least you didn’t try to move the scout sideways this time. That’s something.”

Eren grinned, eyes on the board.

The game continued, slow and uneven, but with laughter tucked between the moves.

They’d discovered, to mild surprise, that they both quite enjoyed the game. Even if Eren was at a disadvantage.

He’d grasped the basics quickly after the initial flailing—his moves more confident, his questions fewer. Still far from winning, but no longer fumbling.

Dinner came and went. This time it was lentil soup, thick with celery and carrots. Eren had asked for extra thyme, and Levi saw no reason to deny it. If the request for seconds was any indication, it might become a staple.

Neither of them had the energy for another round of chess after the meal, no matter how entertaining it had proven to be. But they did find their way back to the armchairs, a fresh pot of tea between them on the table.

The delicate aroma of lavender drifted upward, soft and steady, mingling with the golden light that poured through the window. The warmth settled over them like a blanket—quiet, unspoken, shared.

Levi leaned back, fingers curled around his cup. Eren sat across from him, legs stretched out, eyes half-lidded.

The silence wasn’t empty. It was the kind that came after a day well spent.

Levi closed his eyes.

Not to sleep—just to enjoy the moment. The warmth of the tea, the scent of lavender, the quiet. Trust, in its simplest form.

Eren, still curious, let his gaze wander. It drifted across the room until it landed on the bookshelf. A vivid red caught his eye—bold, almost garish against the muted spines around it.

He stood, drawn in without quite knowing why.

Levi didn’t stir. Eren wasn’t tethered to his hip, despite what the past few days might suggest. Let him amuse himself.

Levi’s mind wandered elsewhere. He’d need to refill the tea soon—both of them drank it now. A trip to town was overdue. The butcher, the delicatessen, some good flour. He could teach Eren how to make bread. That would be an endeavor.

He was halfway through mentally drafting a shopping list when Eren’s voice cut through:

“So this is what you read when you’re not glaring at goats?”

Levi’s brow wrinkled. He turned, confused for a beat— But even before his eyes found Eren, he knew.

“Give me that before I make you regret literacy.”

Eren was holding the red book, grinning like he’d unearthed a secret. The cover was a fever dream: Two half-dressed figures locked in a dramatic embrace, wind-blown hair, improbable muscles, and a backdrop of stormy cliffs. An obviously newer story, likely written in the last few years, aiming to excite with the still-exotic sea backdrop—something most people had only just begun to see for themselves. One of them had a sword. The other had… less clothing.

Eren raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t peg you for the type,” he said, flipping it over. “Is this guy wearing a cape or a curtain?”

Levi narrowed his eyes. “Put it back.”

But Eren was already leafing through it, catching random sentences and snorting.

“‘Her bosom heaved like the tide against his rugged chest.’” He looked up. “Is that even physically possible?”

Levi didn’t answer. He was debating whether to stand and confiscate the book or let the moment pass. Drawing attention would only make it worse.

It wasn’t shame. He wasn’t a delicate flower. But he had read it. And he remembered some of the scenes.

Scenes that had no business resurfacing with Eren in the same room.

Eren, meanwhile, was having the time of his life.

“‘He whispered her name like a prayer, his hands trembling with forbidden desire.’” He intoned dramatically, then snickered. “Forbidden desire, huh? You sure this isn’t your autobiography?”

Levi’s glare could have curdled milk. “You narrate like a drunk pigeon,” he said flatly.

Eren ignored it, flipping another page. “‘She gasped, her fingers clutching the velvet sheets as—’ okay, I’m stopping there. This is getting educational.”

Levi stood. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to make Eren pause.

“Put it back,” he said, voice low.

Eren held the book up like a shield. “Come on, it’s practically a cultural artifact.”

“It’s trash.”

“Trash you read.”

Levi took a step forward.

Eren retreated, laughing, the book still in hand.

“Mock it all you want,” Levi said, stepping closer. “But you seem pretty entertained. Kids shouldn’t read that, though—so hand it over before you hit something you can’t handle.”

Eren blinked, the grin faltering just slightly.

He opened his mouth, tried for humor.

“Well, I’m not a kid. And I’ve handled worse than a few heaving bosoms.”

It didn’t land. Levi’s expression didn’t shift.

“That’s debatable,” he said, voice dry. “You couldn’t even handle the goat.”

Eren’s brows drew together—not quite a frown, but something close. He looked at the book in his hand, then back at Levi.

The teasing had twisted. Not cruel, not sharp. But something else. Something that made the air feel thinner.

He stepped forward, not retreating this time.

“You know,” he said, tone low, “if you’re going to talk down to me, at least make it interesting.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

He hadn’t expected Eren to push back. Not like that.

He’d thought—hoped—Eren would laugh it off, toss the book aside, let the moment pass.

But Eren didn’t.

And Levi, for all his control, wasn’t sure what came next.

The room felt smaller. The light from the window had shifted, casting long shadows across the floor. The tea sat untouched between them.

Levi’s fingers flexed at his side, a twitch he didn’t bother hiding.

Eren held the book loosely now, not as a shield, not as a joke. Just something in his hand. There but momentarily forgotten.

Eren held the book loosely now, not as a shield, not as a joke. Just something in his hand. There but momentarily forgotten.

Levi’s voice cut through the quiet, low and deliberate.

“I’m not here to make it entertaining. And if you can’t take the heat, don’t light the match.”

The words hung there, sharp but not cruel. A warning, maybe. Or something else.

Eren’s jaw tensed. He looked up, eyes narrowing—not in anger, but in something more tangled. He couldn’t help himself.

“You sure it’s not the other way round? It’s not me who got overly serious about a few silly lines in an erotic novel. I was under the impression it made you no difference. Maybe I was wrong.”

Levi didn’t move. But something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Not quite.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate. Not looming. Just present.

“You talk too much when you’re unsure.”

Eren’s breath caught—not because of the words, but the way Levi said them. Quiet. Knowing. Not mocking.

“And you don’t talk at all when you are,” Eren shot back, voice tight.

Levi’s gaze didn’t waver. But his fingers brushed the edge of the table, grounding himself.

The book between them felt heavier now. Not because of its contents. Because of what it had stirred.

Neither of them had meant to step into this space. But now they were here.

And neither was willing to be the first to step back.

“Someone once told me that a tongue can cut deeper than a blade when well aimed,” Levi said, voice even. “I’m intentional with mine.”

Eren’s brows drew together, confusion flickering across his face.

“What? You think I—”

“I don’t think anything.” Levi cut in, sharp but not raised. “Sometimes it’s good to stand down and withdraw. I advise stopping now before we say more than we’ve meant.”

It had gone on long enough.

Strategic disengagement was as valid a tactic as any. He’d used it in worse situations, with higher stakes. This wasn’t a battlefield, but the tension had begun to feel like one.

There was no point in throwing veiled insults. Or worse—insinuations. They weren’t gaining anything from it. Just frustration, coiled and ready to spill.

Levi could admit that. And he wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Not over being the one to call it.

He stepped back, just slightly, the shift subtle but clear.

Eren looked at him, jaw still tight, but the fire in his eyes dimmed. Not extinguished. Just banked.

The book was still in his hand. But now it felt like a prop from a scene neither of them had rehearsed.

Levi turned away, sat and reached for his cup. The tea had cooled. He drank it anyway.

Eren stood there, probably digesting the sudden dismissal. His grip on the book had loosened, though he hadn’t put it down.

Finally, Levi heard a resigned murmur.

“What am I supposed to read now, then?”

Whether it was directed at Levi or just the room was unclear. But Levi had mercy enough to lessen the tension.

“Read whatever you want.” He didn’t look up. “As long as you don’t make it a spectacle, unprompted, I don’t care how many heaving bosoms you read about.”

Eren shifted, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“So in books it’s fine?”

Levi exhaled through his nose.

“I don’t particularly care for your opinion about bosoms.” He glanced at Eren, then back to his cup. “I don’t see any here, though, if that’s what you’re asking. And as long as I’m under this roof, I don’t foresee any.”

A beat.

“Do with that what you will.” He took a sip. “Now let me enjoy my tea in silence. I feel like I need it.”

Eren didn’t argue. He wandered back toward the chair, book still in hand, and this time—quietly—he sat.

The lavender lingered in the air. The light had shifted again, softer now. And the silence, finally, was companionable.

Chapter Text

The morning unfolded—sunlight filtering through the trees, the scent of hay and damp soil lingering in the air.

Eren crouched by the coop, hands steady. The feisty hen—the one Levi had warned him about—watched him with narrowed eyes, feathers puffed like a challenge. But Eren didn’t flinch. He moved slow, deliberate, and when he reached beneath her, she didn’t peck. Just gave a disgruntled shuffle and let him take the egg.

He retrieved all of them without incident. Not a single crack.

The white chicken followed him again, trailing close behind like she had with Levi. Eren paused, crouched, and ran his fingers along her back—not in the usual way, but with a kind of rhythm, soft and circular. She cooed, feathers settling.

Levi watched from the porch, arms crossed.

He didn’t know how Eren knew to do that. But somehow, he did. And somehow, the chicken looked happier for it. So did Eren.

Levi didn’t comment. Just turned toward the stable.

He led the mare out, her hooves clicking against the path. She tossed her head once, then settled as he guided her toward the meadow.

“I’ll take her out for a short ride,” he said over his shoulder. “Go to the back garden. Pull some radish and lettuce for later. Don’t pick the ones that still look like twigs.”

Eren gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir. No twig-pulling today.”

Levi mounted with ease, the mare shifting beneath him, eager. He gave her a moment to adjust, then nudged her forward, aiming to head toward the tree line.

Eren made his way to the back garden, the soil warm underfoot. He crouched, scanned the rows, and chose carefully—radishes firm, leaves full, no guessing this time. He pulled with confidence, dirt crumbling away cleanly.

Then he heard it.

A bleat. Too close.

He turned.

The goat stood there, head lowered, eyes locked.

“Shit—no, no, no—”

The goat didn’t slow. She barreled forward with unexpected speed, hooves kicking up dust.

Levi’s voice rang out from the distance, dry and unimpressed.

“I thought I told you not to negotiate.”

Eren scrambled behind the garden bed, breath caught between panic and disbelief.

“He’s not supposed to be here! Also, why are you here!? Were you not just riding off into the distance? Are you both colluding against me?”

Levi rode closer, the mare trotting with ease.

“He’s an escape artist. I warned you. Before I even crossed the yard I saw him run for it—and straight toward where he could cause the most commotion. You left the latch loose.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

The goat snorted, then turned and trotted off, victorious.

Eren sat in the dirt, radish still clutched in one hand.

Levi dismounted, tied the mare loosely to the fence, and walked over.

He looked down at Eren, then at the goat disappearing into the distance.

“Well, at least you kept the radishes away from him. Not too bad for a squealing I’ve heard.”

Eren groaned.

“I’m starting to think those are traps set out to test me.”

Levi crouched, picked up a stray leaf, and flicked it off his boot.

“You have a fair teacher. I will consider your effort if you don't repeat the same errors.”

“I’ll hold you to your words, just so you know,” Eren said, brushing dirt off his pants as he stood.

“What now? We need to catch him?”

Levi glanced toward the where the goat had vanished, then back at Eren.

“If you were planning to chase him down, good luck. That thing could keep you running until nightfall.” He paused, brushing a leaf off his sleeve. “You don’t negotiate with it. Not unless you’re ready to give up first. But I think we’re past that point.”

He stepped toward the edge of the garden, boots crunching softly over the gravel path that separated the rows of lettuce from the open yard.

“Best way to deal with him is food. Let him come to you, then let him regret it. That’s punishment enough for this greedy little shit.” He glanced at Eren with a dry look. “I’ll help you before I head out. I don’t need you flattening my land again with that ass of yours. It’s becoming a habit—and not a healthy one.”

Eren smirked.

“You won’t see an ass this fine in at least a three-mile radius.”

Levi didn’t miss a beat.

“There’s no one else here within the three-mile radius. My own I can’t see, and I don’t think even you would try competing with animals.”

“Very funny, Levi. Very funny.”

Levi shrugged and started walking toward the direction the goat had disappeared.

“You approach first with the offering. It’s stubborn and quick, but tends to get stupid over food. That’s his weak point. I’ll grab it by the collar and drag it back.”

“So that’s why it has one.”

“What, did you think I was trying to make it a house pet?”

“I’ve seen stranger things than that.”

“I’d rather not know. Thank you.”

They carried out the plan with a mix of laughter and low curses. Eren held out a handful of chopped carrot tops and beet greens, crouched low and murmuring nonsense like he was trying to charm a wild beast. The goat hesitated, sniffed, then lunged.

Levi was faster. He grabbed the collar with practiced ease, yanked the goat back mid-lunge, and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath.

They returned him to his pen, latched it properly this time, and checked the fencing for weak spots.

Levi dusted off his hands and turned toward the mare, who had been watching the whole ordeal with what could only be described as judgment.

“I’ll go for that ride now,” he said, adjusting the reins. “Once I’m back, I’ll show you the beehives more closely. A few things need doing either way, if you’re interested.”

Eren nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Sure. Sounds better than goat-wrangling.”

Levi adjusted the reins, the mare shifting her weight beneath him.

“While I’m gone, wash the vegetables you picked. Cold water in a bowl will keep them from wilting.” He gave a small nod toward the house. “Leave them on the counter, and do whatever else you feel like until I’m back. Won’t be more than an hour.”

Levi mounted the mare, gave her a gentle nudge, and rode off toward the trees.

Eren watched him go, then turned back to the garden. The lettuce waited, crisp and green in the morning light.

Levi returned just past midday, the mare’s gait slow and steady as they crossed the yard. He didn’t have to call out. Eren was already there—on the porch, one of the kitchen chairs dragged out, his eyes closed against the sun.

The light played across his face, soft and uneven. A breeze stirred his bangs, lifting them just enough to reveal the faint crease between his brows. He looked peaceful. Not untouched—Levi knew better than that. But softened, somehow. Like the sun had coaxed something gentle to the surface.

Levi dismounted, tied the mare at the post, and didn’t look away.

Eren opened his eyes slowly, caught Levi’s gaze, and smiled.

Levi held it. Refused to pretend he hadn’t been watching.

“I’ll return her to the stall,” he said, voice low. “Then we’ll grab what we need from the shed.”

Eren nodded, stretching once before standing.

They moved with quiet efficiency—Levi brushing down the mare, checking her hooves, then leading her back into the stable. Eren waited by the shed, already pulling open the door.

Inside, Levi reached for the smoker first, then the hive tool, a small brush, and a pair of gloves. He handed Eren a spare set.

“You won’t need the full suit today. They’re calm in this weather.”

The sun was warm but not oppressive, the air dry. Ideal for hive work. Moisture was the enemy this time of year—too much and the brood could sour, mold creeping in where it didn’t belong.

They walked to the edge of the property, where the hives stood in neat rows, painted in muted tones—grey, ochre, a faded blue. The bees moved in and out with quiet purpose, their hum steady and low.

Levi crouched beside the first box, gesturing for Eren to do the same.

“Late May’s when you check for moisture, food stores, brood health. Swarming too, if they’re feeling ambitious.”

Eren watched as Levi lit the smoker, the scent of burning pine needles curling into the air.

“Why swarming?”

“Too many bees. Not enough space. They get ideas.” Levi lifted the lid with care, smoke drifting gently over the frames. “You either split the hive or lose half of it to the wind.”

Eren peered inside, eyes wide.

The comb was thick, golden, pulsing with movement. Bees crawled over each other, wings shimmering.

“They’re… organized.”

Levi nodded.

“They have a system. Everyone knows their role. No one questions it.”

He paused, slid the hive tool along the edge of a frame.

“It’s not unlike a squad. Except they don’t waste time arguing.”

Eren smirked.

“Or sulking.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his voice softened.

“They work. They protect. They die if they have to.”

He lifted a frame, held it steady.

“And they don’t ask why.”

Eren was quiet for a moment, watching the bees move.

“Do you ever think they know?”

Levi glanced at him.

“Know what?”

“That they’re part of something bigger. That what they do matters.”

Levi set the frame back gently.

“Maybe. Or maybe they just do it because it’s what they were made for.”

They moved to the next hive, repeating the process—checking for moisture, brushing away debris, inspecting the brood pattern.

Eren asked questions. Levi answered. Not with lectures, but with quiet precision.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass.

By the time they finished, the smoker had burned down, and the bees had settled again.

Levi stood, brushing off his gloves.

Eren looked at the hives, then at Levi.

“They’re strange. But kind of… beautiful.”

Levi nodded once.

“They are.”

They walked back toward the house, the hum of the bees lingering behind them.

The cabin was steeped in that peculiar hush that only exists before dawn—when the world hasn’t quite decided to wake. Outside, the mare shifted in her sleep, hooves twitching against the dew-damp earth. Inside, the air was cool and still, save for the soft scrape of a wooden drawer being opened.

Eren moved quietly, barefoot, his shirt rumpled from sleep—or the lack of it. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, and his eyes, though alert, carried the weight of something unsettled. He hadn’t meant to wake. The nightmares had done that for him. And once they’d left him gasping in the dark, returning to sleep felt like a betrayal.

He’d considered going outside, walking it off. But the cold was sharp, and Levi was still asleep. So instead, he’d found himself staring at the last piece of bread on the counter—hard as stone, edges curled like it was trying to retreat into itself.

He muttered under his breath, “Useless,” and not just about the bread.

The pantry offered little: a half-used sack of flour, a jar of yeast Levi had tucked behind a tin of dried herbs, salt. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And something was better than sitting still.

He worked in silence, mixing with guesswork and instinct. The dough clung to his fingers like it didn’t want to be made. He added more flour. Then too much. The texture turned grainy. He frowned, jaw tight, and kept going.

The door creaked behind him.

Eren didn’t turn, but he felt Levi’s presence before he spoke.

“You planning to fight it into submission?” Levi’s voice was low, rough with sleep but edged with dry amusement.

Eren glanced over his shoulder. Levi stood in his usual early-morning state—shirt half-buttoned, hair damp from a quick rinse, eyes sharp despite the hour.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Eren said, voice quiet. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Levi stepped closer, eyeing the mess on the counter. “Nightmares?”

Eren nodded. “Yeah.”

Levi didn’t press. Just reached for the dough, poked it once with a finger. “You trying to make bread?”

Eren hesitated. “I saw the last piece. It’s gone stale. Thought I’d try to make something useful.”

Levi looked at him then—really looked. Eren’s shoulders were tense, his movements too precise, like he was holding something in. There was a flicker in his expression: disappointment, maybe. Sadness. A quiet grief that hadn’t found its words yet. And beneath it, a thread of anger—at himself, at the world, at the way things kept slipping through his fingers.

Levi reached for the flour, added a handful with practiced ease. “You’re not useless,” he said, not looking up. “Just impatient.”

Eren blinked. “I wasn’t—”

“I know,” Levi said. “But you’re trying. That counts.”

They worked in tandem after that. Levi showed him how to knead properly—press, fold, turn. Their hands brushed once, and Eren stilled. Levi didn’t comment, just kept moving, steady and sure.

The oven warmed the cabin, and the scent of rising bread began to fill the space—yeasty, earthy, comforting. Eren leaned against the counter, watching the dough rise, his expression softer now, though still shadowed.

Levi poured two cups of tea, slid one toward him.

Eren took it, fingers curling around the warmth. “Thanks.”

Levi sipped his own, then said, almost absently, “Sometimes the things we make don’t turn out the way we want. Doesn’t mean they weren’t worth making.”

Eren looked at him, something unreadable in his gaze. “You mean the bread?”

Levi’s mouth twitched. “Sure. The bread.”

They sat in silence until the loaf was done. It was uneven, a little too dense, but it held together. Levi cut a slice, tasted it.

“Edible. And I didn’t lose a tooth.”

Eren smiled, faint but real. “So there’s hope yet I’ll make a loaf one day?”

Levi nodded. “Takes time, but I’d say you’re still stubborn enough to make that happen. And this time, you listen.”

Eren smiled again, and for a moment, the cabin felt lighter.

Eren had gone for a shower, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality. Levi remained in the kitchen, the scent of baked bread still warm in the air, mingling with the faint trace of pine smoke and tea.

He moved without hurry. Pulled the loaf toward him, sliced it cleanly. The crust gave a satisfying crackle, the inside still soft—dense, yes, but honest.

He set the slices aside, reached for the butter, then paused. Opened the cupboard and took out the honey jar, its amber glow catching the morning light. A quiet nod to the bees. How similar were they or how different?

He spread the honey on two slices, slow and deliberate. Then reached for the blueberry jam—last year’s batch, sealed tight, still good. The color was deep, almost violet. He added it to another pair, then stacked the sandwiches neatly on a plate.

The rhythm of it helped. Simple motions. Clean outcomes.

But his thoughts didn’t stay quiet.

He glanced toward the hallway, where the sound of running water echoed faintly. Eren, washing off the remnants of whatever had chased him from sleep.

Levi hadn’t asked for details. He rarely did.

But he wondered now—was this the first night the nightmares had come? Or had they been there all along, unnoticed?

It would be normal, he supposed. Considering everything.

He wasn’t free of them either. Not entirely. They came less often now, dulled by time and routine. By the shift to something simpler. Less blood. More bread.

Still, the thought crept in—what if it got worse?

He dismissed it quickly. What-ifs were a waste of time. They didn’t change anything.

Better to focus on what was here. What he could do. Anchor Eren in the present. Counterbalance whatever his dreams showed him.

But another thought tugged at him.

Was he being too lenient?

Too easy?

He’d promised not to be. Promised himself he wouldn’t let sentiment soften the edges that needed to stay sharp.

Was he running from something? Doing a disservice?

Tending bees, baking bread, feeding animals—it was honest work. But did it right any wrongs?

Was this what kept Eren up? Or something else?

Levi didn’t know. And that unsettled him.

He’d already decided, hadn’t he? There was no repentance possible. Not for what had happened.

You either accepted that or you didn’t.

He just had to remind himself.

He wasn’t dismissing madness. He’d agreed to live with its aftermath.

He placed the plate on the table, poured fresh tea into two cups, and sat.

The morning light crept across the floor, slow and golden.

And Levi waited.

It felt like a day where keeping Eren busy came as an internal understanding for Levi. He recognized the need, and his brain was quick to jump on it. Maybe he needed it too.

The sun had climbed steadily, casting long shadows across the yard. The soil was warm, pliable, and the garden rows were thick with green—some thriving, some overcrowded.

Levi crouched beside a bed of carrots, gesturing for Eren to join him.

“Thinning,” he said. “You remove the weaker seedlings so the rest can grow properly. Not the biggest, not the smallest—just the ones that won’t make it.”

Eren knelt beside him, brow furrowed.

“How do you know which won’t make it?”

Levi pointed. “Spacing. Leaf shape. You learn to read them. Don’t get sentimental.”

Eren nodded, started pulling. Levi watched for a moment, then reached out and stopped his hand.

“That one stays. You’re not harvesting. You’re editing.”

Eren snorted. “You make it sound like writing.”

“It’s not far off.”

They worked in tandem, the rhythm steady. Light banter passed between them, easy and familiar.

After thinning, Levi handed Eren a hoe and pointed toward the next row.

“Weed control. These are the ones you pull. These—” he pointed to a cluster of broad leaves, “—you leave. They’re the actual crop.”

Eren nodded, focused. The sun rose higher, heat settling over their shoulders. Bugs began to stir—flies, gnats, the occasional beetle.

Then it happened.

A sharp sting on Eren’s back. He jolted, swatted violently, and lost his balance.

“Shit—ow—what the hell—”

He stumbled backward, landing with a grunt—right onto the rake he’d set aside. The teeth caught the fabric, and as he scrambled up, there was a distinct tearing sound.

Levi turned, saw the scene unfold, and blinked.

“When you advertised your ass,” he said, somewhere between dry amusement and disbelief, “I didn’t know it came with a free viewing.”

Eren twisted, trying to assess the damage.

“What?”

Levi stepped closer, arms crossed.

“Your ass is now proudly hanging out for all to see. Well, not all of it, but enough.”

“You’re having at me, right? I wore underpants. There’s no way it all tore. I barely sat on it. Come on…”

“You sure about that, brat?”

Eren swiveled, trying to get a better look, then reached back to feel the fabric.

Levi raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not judging if you’d rather let your junk breathe. Don’t get a stitch over it.”

Eren groaned.

“That’s so unfair. And that’s the better pair of pants, too. Ugh…”

Levi’s amusement dimmed just slightly. He remembered—Eren came with two pairs of clothes and whatever he slept in. Funny or not, it was a serious concern.

“Nothing major,” Levi said. “I can mend it later, Eren. Though, if you’d stop flashing me, I’d appreciate that. Doesn’t feel like the right setting, really.”

Eren rolled his eyes, brushing dirt off his knees.

“Not like you haven’t seen my ass before.”

Levi paused.

“Don’t remind me. That’s the thing I miss the least—communal baths and hairy asses while teenagers run amok.”

“Don’t lump me in with everyone else! I was always in and out, no funny business. And my ass is certainly not hairy, excuse you.”

Levi almost slipped. Almost.

Because from what he remembered, Eren’s ass was indeed not hairy. That he’d filed that information away was… alarming.

He wasn’t lusting after anyone in the showers. But he couldn’t say he never noticed. Not there, really. But on missions—washing in creeks, lakes—less obstruction, more exposure.

“Sure, whatever you say, Eren.” He settled on that.

“I’m telling yo—”

“I believe you. Let’s leave it at that. Is that really a conversation we need to be having either way?”

It was meant to close the discussion. But the moment the rhetorical question landed, Levi caught the glint in Eren’s eye.

Something unspoken. Something that didn’t quite fade.

Levi’s rhetorical line hung in the air, meant to close the door.

But Eren, dirt-smudged and half-torn, didn’t move to let it shut.

Instead, he tilted his head, lips twitching with something half-formed—half challenge, half play.

“Depends,” he said, voice low but not serious. “Is it a conversation you’d rather be having?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. He was still crouched, one hand resting on his knee, the other brushing soil from his palm. His gaze flicked up, sharp and unreadable.

Eren didn’t flinch. He leaned back slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, posture loose but deliberate.

“I mean, you brought up my ass. Twice.”

Levi exhaled through his nose. “You fell on a rake. I didn’t exactly plan the spectacle.”

“Still. You didn’t look away.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed.

“I was assessing damage.”

“Sure you were.” Eren’s grin widened, but it wasn’t smug. It was testing—curious, like a hand reaching into cold water to see how deep it goes.

Levi stood, brushing off his trousers with short, efficient movements.

“You’re toeing a line, Eren.”

“I know.” He said it without apology.

Levi turned, walked a few steps toward the shed, then paused.

“You do this often.”

“What?”

“Push. Prod. Wait to see if I push back.”

Eren shrugged.

“You don’t always. Sometimes you just… let it hang there.”

Levi looked over his shoulder.

“And what do you think that means?”

Eren’s expression shifted—still playful, but edged now with something more thoughtful.

“I think it means you don’t mind. Not really.”

Levi didn’t respond. He turned back toward the shed, but his pace was slower now. Eren stood, following, rake in hand, the torn fabric flapping slightly with each step.

“I’ll patch it,” Levi said again, quieter this time. “Later.”

“Thanks.”

They reached the tools, and Levi began sorting them, placing each back in its place with practiced precision.

Eren lingered nearby, watching.

“You know,” he said, voice lighter again, “if you ever want to talk about my ass in a more flattering context, I’m open to it.”

Levi didn’t look up.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

But there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Eren caught it. And for a moment, the garden felt warmer than the sun could explain.

Later, home, Levi had said it offhandedly, almost like it was nothing.

“You could try brushing her. See how she takes to you.”

He’d been rinsing vegetables for dinner, sleeves rolled up, the light catching the edge of his jaw. “Start slow. She likes the shoulder first. Not the flank. And don’t hover. She hates that.”

Eren had nodded, maybe too quickly. Levi didn’t look up, but Eren had felt the weight of the offer anyway.

It wasn’t just about the mare. It was about trust. About being let in.

So now he stood at the edge of the small stable, brush in hand, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

The mare—dark, tall, with a streak of white down her nose—watched him. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just watching.

Eren cleared his throat.

“Hey. It’s just me.”

She flicked an ear.

He stepped in slowly, boots crunching against the straw. The smell was earthy—hay, leather, something warm and animal. He kept his movements deliberate, not stiff. Levi had said not to hover. So he didn’t.

He stopped a few feet away, crouched slightly, let her see him.

“I’m not here to mess with you. Just want to help out.”

She shifted her weight, one hoof tapping lightly.

Eren extended the brush, not touching yet. Let her see it. Let her decide.

She didn’t move away.

So he stepped closer, lifted the brush, and started at her shoulder—slow strokes, firm but gentle.

She didn’t flinch.

Eren exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

“You’re a good girl,” he murmured. “I get why you’re picky. He’s picky too.”

She blinked, long and slow.

Eren kept brushing, falling into rhythm. The sound was soft—bristles against hide, the occasional snort, the creak of wood.

His thoughts wandered.

Back to the garden. To Levi’s voice, dry and amused. To the way he’d looked at him—not just looked, but seen.

The rake incident. The teasing. The way Levi hadn’t shut it down immediately.

And before that—the book. The way Levi had lingered, the way his fingers had brushed Eren’s wrist like it meant something.

Eren cringed a little.

Some of it had been stupid. Embarrassing. He’d said things without thinking, pushed too far, too fast.

But then again… Levi hadn’t pulled away. Not really.

Eren’s hand slowed, resting against the mare’s shoulder.

He wanted Levi. That part was simple. It had always been simple.

Even before everything fell apart, even when they’d only had fragments—shared silences, glances that lasted too long, the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.

Now it was different. Sharper. More fragile.

Levi was letting him in. Bit by bit.

And Eren didn’t want to ruin that. Didn’t want to sprint ahead and find himself alone again.

But something in him wanted more. Still.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Wait? Let things happen?

But then things would just keep happening, and maybe he’d react without thinking. Push Levi away by accident.

Maybe if he was more intentional… More careful…

He brushed the mare’s neck, watching her eyes soften.

“You’re doing good,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he meant her or himself.

He wanted to be patient. Wanted to earn it.

But he also wanted to keep being seen. Wanted Levi to know—he wasn’t confused. He wasn’t torn.

He was here. And he wanted Levi however Levi would have him.

The mare nudged his shoulder, just slightly.

Eren smiled.

The cabin was quiet again. Dinner had been simple—vegetables, bread, a bit of cheese. Eren had eaten with the kind of hunger that came from sun and soil, then stood to wash the dishes without being asked.

Levi sat by the window, needle in hand, the torn pants draped across his knee.

The fabric was worn, but not beyond saving. The tear ran jagged, caught by the rake’s teeth—an ugly rip, but honest. Like most things lately.

He threaded the needle slowly, fingers steady. The light was fading, but he didn’t need much. He’d done this enough times to know the rhythm by feel.

In. Pull. Knot. Repeat.

The stitching was clean, tight. Not perfect, but strong.

He liked mending things. Liked the quiet of it. The way it asked for patience, not brilliance.

Eren’s pants were rough cotton, the kind that held up under strain. He’d brought two pairs. Levi had noticed that early on. Noticed a lot of things.

He pressed the fabric flat, ran his thumb along the seam.

Eren had shown him all his damaged parts. Not just the tear in the pants. The cracks in his voice. The way he looked at the mare like her trust meant something sacred.

Levi hadn’t turned away.

He was making something of it. Despite it.

Whatever it was.

He stitched another line, the thread pulling taut and then through with a soft whisper.

Eren’s words echoed, uninvited.

“ You sure this isn’t your autobiography? ” Eren had said it with a smirk, but Levi hadn’t laughed. The line had stuck. Too close to something he hadn’t named.

Was it? Had he seen himself in those pages—those lines Eren read aloud like confessions?

He hadn’t answered then. Didn’t know how.

“ You sure it’s not the other way round? ” That one had come later. Eren, leaning back, eyes sharp. Accusing, maybe. Or just seeing too much.

Levi had brushed it off. But now, with the needle paused mid-air, he wondered.

Had it always been Eren who saw clearer?

“ I think it means you don’t mind. Not really. ” That had been softer. Said while Eren was half-turned, watching the fire.

Levi hadn’t denied it. Not out loud.

But what did it mean—to not mind?

The mess? The closeness? The risk?

He stitched another line, slower now.

“ And you don’t talk at all when you are. ” That one had landed like a stone. Eren had said it without bitterness. Just fact.

Levi had felt it like a bruise.

He didn’t talk. Not when it was real.

He pulled the thread taut, thumb brushing the seam.

What was between them?

What could it be?

He’d said “not yet.” Now he wondered what that meant.

An opening. To expect. To wait.

But for what?

What was he willing to give?

No—what was he able?

To give and to take. It didn’t feel simple. Never had.

And with Eren…

It felt like standing at the edge of something vast. Something that could break or hold.

He stitched again, the rhythm steadying him.

He was cautious by nature. Always had been.

Eren wasn’t. If Eren could, they’d have jumped headfirst long ago.

But Levi waited. Denied. Different reasons. Different excuses.

Depending on who you asked.

He tied off the thread, clipped it clean.

What would it mean to take a step forward?

Instead of back.

How would that even look—for them?

He considered himself a brave man. Sometimes callous. Confident in his strength. His loyalty.

But to whom was he loyal if he embraced this fully?

And who would he be betraying?

Why did it feel like he would?

He folded the pants, set them aside.

The stitching held.

He hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Text

The morning was crisp, the kind that promised warmth by midday but still clung to the chill of night. The cart stood near the barn, half-loaded with crates to hold new purchases in and goods from the farm to barter. Its wooden frame creaked softly as Levi adjusted the harness. The mare flicked her tail, patient but alert, ears twitching at the sound of Eren rummaging inside for the last bundle.

Levi tightened the straps, checked the wheels, then paused—his hand resting on the edge of the cart.

His thoughts drifted.

Not far. Just to the night before.

They’d sat at the table, the oil lamp casting a soft glow across the wood. The list lay between them, Levi’s handwriting neat, precise. Eren leaned forward, brow furrowed, scanning the items.

“We’re out of butter,” he said, tapping the page. “And the ham’s gone. You were right.”

Levi nodded. “Still enough for breakfast and dinner if we’re careful. But it’s time.”

Eren looked up. “You mean the trip?”

Levi sipped his tea, then set the cup down.

“Weather’s holding. Sunset tonight says tomorrow will be the same. Best to go now.”

Eren didn’t argue. Not yet.

Levi reached for the list again, added a few marks near the bottom.

Clothes. Bedroll.

He hesitated, then spoke.

“We’ll pick up a few things for you. Clothes. A proper bedroll.”

Eren blinked. “I’m fine.”

Levi didn’t look up.

“You’re not. You haven’t complained, but I see it. The way you move in the morning. The way you sit.”

Eren shifted in his chair, jaw tightening.

“It’s not that bad.”

“It doesn’t have to be bad for me to fix it.”

Silence.

Levi kept his tone even.

“You’ve been wearing the same shirt for five days. The pants are patched twice already. And the tear from the rake—”

“You mended it.”

“I did. Doesn’t mean it’s good as new.”

Eren leaned back, arms crossed.

“I don’t need more clothes. I’m not here to be dressed up.”

Levi met his gaze then.

“You’re here to live. Not endure.”

That landed.

Eren looked away, fingers drumming against the table.

Levi softened, just slightly.

“I’m not buying you a wardrobe. Just enough to keep you from falling apart.”

Eren didn’t speak.

Levi added, quieter now:

“You didn’t ask for comfort. I know that. But I’m offering it. Because I can.”

The silence stretched.

Then Eren nodded, once.

“Fine. But I get to choose the color.”

Levi smirked.

“As long as it’s not orange.”

Back in the present, Levi adjusted the harness again, the mare snorting softly.

Eren emerged from the cabin, carrying the last bundle, his patched shirt catching the morning light.

Levi watched him approach.

The space between them had shifted. Not tense. Just… more.

More weight. More meaning.

And today, they’d step outside the quiet rhythm they’d built. Into something else.

Levi climbed onto the cart, reins in hand.

“Ready?”

Eren nodded, tossing the bundle into the back.

“Let’s go ruin my fashion reputation.”

Levi didn’t smile. But his eyes held something close.

The mare’s hooves struck a steady rhythm against the dirt road, muffled by the early morning mist. Levi guided her with minimal effort—one hand on the reins, the other resting lightly on his thigh. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes moved constantly—scanning the tree line, the bends in the road, the distant silhouettes that might be nothing or something.

Eren was beside him, wrapped in the wool cloak Levi had laid out the night before, his breath fogging faintly in the early morning chill.

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the cabin. Not out of tension—just a shared quiet, like the woods themselves had pressed a hush over them.

Eren shifted beside him, pulling the cloak tighter. His fingers brushed the edge of the cart, then stilled.

Levi glanced sideways. Eren’s eyes were half-lidded, watching the trees blur past. His hair was still damp from the hurried wash, curling slightly at the ends. The cloak had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the edge of the shirt Levi had chosen for him. It fit well. Too well. Levi looked away.

“You warm enough?” he asked, voice low.

Eren nodded. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

Levi hummed. “You’ll need to keep it on in the village. People stare.”

Eren’s mouth twitched. “At me or at the cloak?”

“At anything that doesn’t fit their mold.”

Eren turned toward him then, eyes clearer. “Do I fit yours?”

Levi didn’t answer right away. The mare snorted, ears flicking back at the sound of a distant crow.

“You’re not a mold,” Levi said finally. “You’re a damn puzzle.”

Eren smiled, slow and crooked. “You like puzzles.”

Levi didn’t deny it. But his mind was already scanning ahead— knife, left hip. Coin pouch, right. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Let Eren carry. Watch for sudden movement. If they stare, stare back. But don’t linger.

He felt the need to share it. “If someone looks too long, assume they’re thinking something. Doesn’t mean it’s good.”

Eren glanced at him. “You always this paranoid on a supply run? Even now?”

Levi didn’t look away from the road. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? I’d like to keep it that way for the both of us.”

A crow called overhead, its cry sharp against the hush. The road curved gently, revealing a stretch of open field. Levi’s grip on the reins tightened slightly.

He could sense Eren’s attention wane from the way his posture changed. They had chosen to situate Eren on Levi’s blind side deliberately. It gave them a full view of the road ahead—strategic, but not ideal. Levi would’ve preferred to see him during the ride. Safety came first.

He wasn’t surprised when he spoke again, though, voice low. “I stole on my way here.”

Levi didn’t flinch. He was expecting something heavy. The answer came easy. “What, you think I didn’t? You know where I’m from. I didn’t sell flowers for coin.”

Eren’s gaze dropped. “Still feels wrong.”

“It is,” Levi said. “But sometimes wrong is the only thing that gets you through. We won’t need to steal today if that makes it any better.”

“It does make it easier. I’d rather not cause trouble in a place you know.” Eren admitted and Levi nodded in acknowledgment.

They kept going. Meadows and pastures and forest the only view meeting their eyes for a while. The faint scent of the dew-damp earth clung to the air for an hour into their journey. Birdsong kept them constant company—distant warbles, closer cawing when a curious jackdaw flew by or observed from a nearby tree.

Once they passed a broken fence, its slats leaning like tired shoulders Levi pointed ahead. They were getting closer to their destination. “We hit the general store first. Then the tea, the apothecary and lastly all the grocers. That way food doesn’t sit out on the cart longer than it has to. If we split, you keep walking until the edge of the village and wait if you see no danger or keep walking. Don’t look back. I’ll find you.”

Eren nodded. “And if someone recognizes me?”

“They won’t. But if they do, I’ll handle it. You just move.”

The mare snorted, ears flicking back. Levi reached out instinctively, brushing her neck. Eren watched the gesture, then looked at Levi’s hand—steady, scarred, deliberate.

Without thinking, his fingers found Levi’s. A light touch. Not a grip. Just contact.

Instantly, Levi’s body flushed with adrenaline. He hadn’t seen it coming . 

It wasn’t the only reason for his tendons to spasm.

He didn’t lash out or pull away. Seconds passed. His hand relaxed under the warmth that spread.

They stayed like that for a moment, the cart rolling forward, the woods thinning around them.

He trusts me, Levi thought. That’s dangerous.

He didn’t pull away, Eren thought. That means something.

The road began to curve more deliberately, the trees thinning like they’d been told to make way. A lone farmhouse appeared on the left—whitewashed walls dulled by time, its roof sagging slightly at the edges. A dog barked once, then retreated behind a barrel. Levi’s eyes flicked to the windows: curtains drawn, no movement.

Another house followed, this one with laundry strung across a crooked line. Shirts, trousers, a child’s tunic. Levi catalogued the details—three sizes, no signs of recent wear. Likely a family, but quiet. No threat.

Eren shifted beside him, the cart’s rhythm steady beneath them. He didn’t speak, but Levi felt the tension in his posture. Not fear. Awareness.

Nothing nefarious so far,” Eren said, voice low. 

“Not yet,” Levi replied. “But pay attention. Familiarity dulls the edge of danger.” 

A crow lifted from a fence post and wheeled overhead. Levi watched its arc, then returned to scanning the road. 

Eren acquiesced. “Not like I’m familiar with this place. I get what you mean though. In places like this a new face catches attention and word spreads like wildfire in a dry summer.”

The first true signs of the village came not long after—they could see the sizable farmhouses turn into smaller ones, until those gave way to the outer perimeter of the settlement proper.

Even before reaching the main road into the center, on the outskirts they could see the more modest living quarters built of wood rather than brick and painted more muted colours. Some one storey, some up to three but not more. 

Noise rose steadily the further in they went. Other wooden wheels clattered over cobblestone with just enough space to pass them in the narrower parts of the street. Each such occasion had them ensure Eren’s face was obscured just enough to hide his identity and not too obviously to invite questions.

Distant voices—rising and falling—indicated the easy cadence of everyday life in a mid-sized village. 

Levi guided them confidently towards the main street where most of the shops were located. It opened into the square where a market was held a few days of the week. He made sure they came on the right day. To come and be met with empty stalls would have been foolish.

The more prosperous merchants had their stalls in the larger market hall, roof over the head allowing for more consistent trade. They would be making rounds in both areas.

The scent of smoke, bread and sweat mingled in the air, warm and sharp. 

Children darted between stalls, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons. An old man argued over the price of turnips. A woman balanced a basket on her hip, haggling with a vendor who gestured too broadly.

They were here.

Levi’s eyes moved constantly. He noted the placement of carts, the exits between buildings, the faces that turned too slowly toward them. Most looked away. One didn’t.

“Left stall,” Levi murmured. “Don’t stare. Just note.”

Eren nodded, his gaze flicking past the man without lingering.

Levi kept making notes. Three exits. One alley. No uniforms. No insignia. No one armed. But eyes linger. That’s enough.

He adjusted his grip on the cart’s edge, fingers brushing Eren’s briefly. Not intentional. Not avoided.

Now they just needed to find space to settle their cart and horse and get what they needed. Levi already visualized their way back through the same alleys. 

They passed a bakery, the scent of yeast and sugar curling around them. Eren inhaled, then glanced at Levi.

“You ever stop for something sweet?”

“Not when I’m being watched.”

“You’re always being watched.”

Levi didn’t answer. But his hand didn’t move when Eren’s knuckles brushed his again.

Levi guided the cart toward a quieter side alley just off the market square. The mare slowed without prompting, ears flicking as if she knew the routine. A shaded nook between two buildings offered enough space to leave the cart without drawing attention. Levi dismounted first, tying the reins to a sturdy post. He checked the harness, then the crates—one last time.

Eren followed, eyes scanning the square. “She’ll be alright here?”

Levi nodded. “She’s smarter than most people. And less trouble.”

They moved toward the general store, its wooden sign faded but legible. The building sat just where the street opened into the square—prime placement for steady traffic, but tucked enough to avoid the worst of the crowd.

Inside, the air was cooler. Dust hung in the light that filtered through the front windows. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with goods both practical and peculiar—oil tins, bundles of rope, jars of pickled vegetables, bolts of cloth. A bell chimed softly as the door shut behind them.

Levi moved with purpose. He scanned the shelves, fingers brushing labels as he passed:

Lamp oil—two jugs.

Blade oil—smaller tin, darker glass.

Candles—a dozen, beeswax.

Nails—sorted by size, he chose two bundles.

Feed—he pointed to the sack near the counter. “That one. For the mare.”

Eren trailed behind, watching Levi work. There was a rhythm to it—efficient, quiet, deliberate.

Then Levi paused.

His eyes landed on a shelf near the back. Dark blue tins, stacked neatly. The word coffee printed in bold white lettering.

He glanced at Eren.

“You drink it,” Levi said. “More than tea, sometimes.”

Eren shrugged. “I like both. Depends on the morning.”

Levi reached for the smaller tin, weighing it in his hand. He could use it, he thought. Especially on nights when sleep didn’t hold.

He brought it to the counter, setting it down with the rest.

The seller—a wiry man with a trimmed beard and sharp eyes—raised an eyebrow. “That’s a fine tin. Imported. Not cheap.”

Levi didn’t flinch. He reached into the crate they’d brought, pulled out a sealed jar of honey. The glass caught the light, golden and thick.

“This is from my hives. You know the taste.”

The seller leaned forward, inspecting the jar. He nodded slowly. “I do. Fine. Half a jug. For the smaller tin.”

Levi’s voice was calm. “Full. Or I take it elsewhere.”

The man hesitated. Then sighed. “You always push.”

“Only when it’s worth it.”

The seller swapped the tin without another word.

Eren watched the exchange, quiet admiration in his eyes.

“You barter like you fight,” he said once they stepped outside. “Precise. No wasted movement.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his voice softened. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

They returned to the cart, Levi loading the new supplies with practiced ease. The mare snorted once, as if to say finally.

The tea shop was in the same alley, a few strides away from where the general shop. Its facade a patchwork of weathered wood and climbing ivy. A small sign hung above the door, hand-painted with curling letters that read Herbs & Infusions . The windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and the scent—earthy, floral, faintly citrus—drifted out each time the door opened.

Levi slowed as they approached. His shoulders, tense from the market’s noise and the weight of vigilance, eased fractionally. He inhaled, the familiar blend of dried leaves and old wood settling something in his chest. His steps grew more deliberate.

Eren glanced at him. “You like this place.”

Levi didn’t answer, but the way he lingered near the door said enough.

Inside, the air was soft and fragrant. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars and tins, bundles of herbs tied with twine, and small ceramic bowls stacked neatly. A woman behind the counter looked up as the bell chimed.

Levi knew he needn’t worry about her recognizing Eren. She didn’t recognize Levi for whom he had been either and that was one of the reasons he kept coming back with ease.

“Well, look who the wind dragged in,” she said, smiling. “Thought you’d gone quiet on me.”

Levi nodded once. “Been busy.”

She waved a hand. “Aren’t we all. Your usual shelf’s stocked. And we got something new in—might suit your taste.”

Levi moved through the shop with quiet familiarity, his fingers brushing labels, his eyes scanning for staples. He paused at a row of tins and turned to Eren.

“You drink it too. What do you want?”

Eren stepped closer, reading the labels. “I don’t know. Something warm.”

“Helpful…” Levi muttered, then reached for a tin with a worn label. “Try this. It’s bitter. But it stays with you.”

Eren took it, turning it in his hands. “You’ve had it?”

“Once. Didn’t hate it.”

Levi added it to the growing pile, then turned back to the shelf. “Three more. The usual ones.”

The shopkeeper nodded, already pulling down tins. “Chamomile, ginger root, and that smoky one you pretend not to like.”

Eren raised an eyebrow. “You’re drowning in tea. Is this an addiction?”

Levi didn’t look up. “Better than drowning in you.”

The shopkeeper chuckled. “He’s been like this since the first time he came in. Dry as dust, but loyal.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a small tin with a bright green label. “This one’s new. Lemongrass and mint. Sharp, but clean. Want a sniff?”

Levi took the tin, popped the lid, and inhaled. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Next time. We’ve got enough.”

Eren leaned in. “You sure? Might help with your mood.”

Levi handed the tin back. “My mood’s fine. You’re just loud.”

They paid, the shopkeeper slipping a small sample packet into Levi’s bag with a wink. “For later. You’ll cave.”

Outside, the square was still busy, but Levi’s posture had changed—less guarded, more grounded. He glanced at Eren, who was watching him with quiet amusement.

“You really like tea,” Eren said.

Levi adjusted the strap on the bag. “It doesn’t ask questions.”

With prior purchases loaded, they moved back to the square and toward its outer edge. There the stalls grew less decorative and more practical. 

Levi led Eren with quiet certainty, weaving past vendors shouting about fresh bread and pickled beets and where the clothiers catered to farmers, travelers, and the occasional eccentric with a taste for embroidered cuffs or dyed wool. 

He didn’t pause until they reached a stall tucked beneath a faded awning, its canvas patched in places but clean. The fabrics here weren’t chasing fashion—they were built to last.

Bolts of fabric hung from wooden beams, swaying gently in the breeze. Earth tones dominated: deep greens, dusty browns, charcoal grays. A few brighter pieces peeked through—mustard yellow, rust red—likely for those more eccentric laborers who liked a splash of color in their routine. 

Shirts were folded in neat stacks, draw-over styles with ties at the collar—simple, practical, familiar. Levi’s eyes moved over the stacks, fingers brushing a coarse linen shirt, then pausing at a thicker weave. 

“This’ll hold,” he muttered.

Eren stood beside him, arms crossed. “You’re really doing this.”

Levi didn’t look up. “Two shirts. Two pants. Socks. Underwear. A sweater.”

“A sweater?”

“There are still cold days. You’ll want it later.”

Eren blinked. Levi’s tone was matter-of-fact, but something in the phrasing— you’ll want it later —landed differently. “ Later, ” he echoed, softly. It wasn’t just about today. Levi was thinking ahead, even if he didn’t realize it. Eren smiled, quiet and warm.

Levi didn’t notice. But the stall seller did.

She was folding a pair of trousers when she glanced up, catching the look between them. “You two want matching scarves?” she asked, voice light. “They suit couples.”

Levi froze. “We’re not—”

“We’ll take them,” Eren said, grinning.

Levi turned, flustered. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

The seller chuckled and wrapped the scarves—one charcoal, one moss green. Levi paid quickly, avoiding her gaze.

They moved down the stall, Levi picking out the rest with practiced efficiency. He chose draw-over shirts with ties at the collar, nodding at the familiar style. The pants were sturdy, reinforced at the knees. Socks and underpants were added without ceremony.

Eren held up a second pair of socks. “One more pair won’t bankrupt you.”

“You already have enough.”

“Enough for what? A week? You want me washing socks every night?”

Levi sighed. “Fine. One more.”

“And the underwear.”

Levi gave him a look. “You planning to parade them?”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

Levi muttered something about regret and handed over the coin.

As they turned to leave, Eren glanced at the bundled sweater in Levi’s arms. “You really think I’ll need that?”

Levi adjusted the strap on the bag. “I think you’ll be glad I thought of it.”

Eren didn’t answer. But the smile lingered.

They moved on from the clothing stall, Levi’s bag heavier with folded fabric and Eren’s grin lingering like the scent of roasted nuts in the air. The market hall loomed ahead, its stone arches more embellished than the rest of the square—a touch of pride in a place built for barter. Levi already angled toward where the apothecary waited.

But Eren didn’t follow.

Levi took three steps before realizing the absence. He turned sharply, eyes scanning. Eren had stopped halfway between stalls, head tilted, nostrils flaring slightly.

“What are you doing?” Levi hissed, stepping back toward him.

Eren didn’t answer right away. His gaze was fixed on a small food cart wedged between two larger stalls, its canopy striped in faded red and gold. Steam curled from a shallow pan, carrying a scent that was unfamiliar—sweet, spiced, and something else. Something warm.

Levi’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t recognize the vendor. A woman with a braid coiled like rope around her head, her eyes sharp and assessing. She was watching Eren now, and Levi didn’t like it.

“Keep walking,” Levi said, low and urgent.

Eren turned slightly, enough to block the woman’s view of his face. “Smells good.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I haven’t smelled anything new in years.”

Levi hesitated. The words weren’t dramatic—they were quiet, factual. But they landed heavy.

Eren stepped closer to the cart, eyes scanning the offerings. Flatbread folded around roasted vegetables, glistening with oil and flecks of char. A dollop of something creamy, pale green, tucked inside. Pickled onions, bright and sharp. The vendor added a sprinkle of crushed seeds before handing one off to a waiting customer.

Eren leaned toward Levi, voice hushed. “Just try it. You always get the same thing.”

“Because it works.”

“So does this. Trust me.”

Levi glanced at the vendor again. She wasn’t looking anymore—busy with coin and wrapping. He exhaled through his nose.

“One,” he said.

Eren grinned and stepped forward, ordering with a confidence that surprised Levi. The vendor didn’t question. She handed over the wrap with a nod, and Eren passed it to Levi first.

Levi held it like it might bite him. The bread was warm, slightly crisp at the edges. He took a cautious bite.

The flavors hit in layers—smoke, salt, tang, a hint of sweetness from the sauce. The texture was soft and crunchy all at once. Levi chewed slowly, then nodded.

“Not bad.”

Eren took the rest and bit in, eyes closing briefly. “Better than not bad.”

Levi didn’t argue. But he glanced once more at the vendor, then at Eren, who had turned his body just enough to stay hidden. Clever. Thoughtful.

They finished the wrap in silence, sharing bites, the tension easing with each mouthful. When they finally moved toward the apothecary, Levi’s steps were slower. Eren walked beside him, relaxed, licking a bit of sauce from his thumb.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

Levi didn’t respond. But the taste lingered on his tongue in a pleasant manner.

The apothecary stood just to the left of the market hall’s arched entrance, its stone façade refined. Ivy crept up the sides, trimmed neatly, and the carved signage above the door bore faded gold lettering: Remedies & Restoratives . Levi paused at the door, the weight of the moment pressing heavier than the bag slung over his shoulder.

He knew what he needed. Soap flakes. Rubs. Pain meds. Things that couldn’t be disguised or deflected. He couldn’t leave Eren outside—not here, not now. Just like with the exercises, he’d have to get over it.

The door creaked open, releasing a wave of scent—lavender, camphor, dried citrus peel. It was sharper than the tea shop, more medicinal, but not unpleasant. Levi’s shoulders eased slightly.

Eren followed, quiet but observant. The space was narrow but well-kept, shelves lined with glass jars and bottles. A counter stretched across the back, behind which stood a man in his fifties, lean and clean-shaven, with spectacles perched low on his nose.

“Levi,” he greeted warmly. “Thought I’d see you today.”

Maren’s gaze flicked to Eren, then back to Levi with a smile that held more curiosity than surprise.

“And company. Good. You look less grim with someone beside you.”

Levi didn’t respond to that, but his expression softened.

“How’s Jon?” he asked. “Still limping?”

Maren’s smile widened. “Better. That salve helped. He’s stubborn, but he listens when it hurts enough.”

“Keep him off the roof. And warm. Don’t wait for fever.”

“You always sound like you care more than you admit,” Maren said, already reaching for the jars Levi usually requested.

Levi shrugged, scanning the shelves with practiced ease. “Need the usual,” he said.

At that the bespectacled man began gathering items without asking—soap flakes, a jar of rub, a small pouch of dried leaves. “Winter’s creeping in. You’ll want the stronger blend.”

Levi didn’t argue. He glanced at Eren, who was inspecting a shelf of oils, fingers hovering over a row of labeled bottles.

“What scent?” Levi asked.

Eren turned, surprised. “Yours is fine.”

“You sure?”

Eren’s voice was softer now. “I like smelling like you.”

Maren smiled, not unkindly, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. Levi’s ears might have burned.

“Pain meds again?” the man asked, wrapping the jars.

“Just in case.”

“Winter’s worse.”

“I’ll make sure he rests,” Eren said, stepping closer.

Levi glanced at him. Didn’t argue.

Then Levi hesitated, fingers brushing a small bottle near the counter. “You have anything for nightmares? Oils or something to drink?”

Eren’s eyes widened. “If that’s for me, then—”

Maren cut in gently, gaze steady. “Knowing Levi, he doesn’t exaggerate. And your eyes, young man, tell me you’d do well to listen.”

Eren blinked, then nodded. “Okay.”

Maren selected a vial and a sachet. “Lavender and valerian. One for the bath, one for tea.”

Levi added, “It’s not just for him. I could still use it sometimes.”

Maren didn’t comment, just wrapped the items carefully.

Levi scanned the shelves again. “Something for sunburn?”

“Cold cream,” Maren said. “Still the best for fair skin and garden work.”

Eren smirked. “You do burn like a parchment left out too long.”

Levi shot him a look. “And you talk too much.”

Eren grinned. “Still true.”

Levi added the cream to the pile.

Maren held up a small bottle. “This one’s for baths. Relaxing. You’ve earned it.”

Levi hesitated, then nodded. “Fine.”

As Maren packed the items, he glanced between them. “Anything else you may need, gentlemen? Other than the usual?”

Levi paused. The phrasing was odd. Not crude, but deliberate. He glanced at Eren, who was still watching the oils. Levi’s face shifted—just slightly. A blanch. A flicker of understanding.

“No,” he said, voice clipped but polite. “That’s all.”

Maren nodded. “You know where to find me.” But then hesitated as he looked to the bag they were already hauling. “Let me put it in something more sturdy. There is glass, too, so best to be extra careful. Would be a waste if something broke.” 

Before Levi could protest, Maren moved to where there was a door behind the counter, disappearing momentarily, but after some rustling and a sound of muted satisfaction, he soon came back with the bundle wrapped more thickly. 

“Wish you safe travel back. Make sure to come if anything runs out. Don’t wait until the last moment.”

“I’m sure this one will make it his mission.” Levi pointed his chin slightly to Eren who smiled assuringly. 

“That you do, young man. A bit of company will do you a wonder, Levi, even if you grouse about it at first.” 

Levi just grunted, whether in agreement or the opposite not possible to tell, and they shared a final goodbye.

They stepped out into the cobbled street, the bustle of the village wrapping around them again. Levi adjusted the sack under his arm, eyes scanning the crowd. Eren walked beside him, silent for a stretch.

“That man,” Eren said eventually. “Maren. You know him well, right?”

Levi didn’t look over. “As well as one might know someone you visit every couple months. Someone who knows most of your ailments. We share some things. Yes.”

“And he… has a partner? One that you know of?”

Levi glanced at him. “Jon, you mean?”

Eren nodded. “Mhm. He is a man, right?”

Levi stopped walking—not abruptly, but enough to make Eren pause too.

“He is,” Levi said. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” Eren said, hesitating. “Just… Didn’t know people shared that with strangers.”

“We’re not strangers,” Levi said. “You said so yourself.”

“I am, though. And I was with you.”

“Because you were with me.”

Eren didn’t answer right away. His brow furrowed—not in judgment, but in thought.

“You know it’s not a crime, right?” Levi asked. “Not for a while. Wasn’t even when we were at war. Where’s this coming from?”

Eren’s voice dropped. “Might not be a crime, sure. But I haven’t really seen people talk about it openly. Like it’s just… part of life.”

Levi exhaled, gaze drifting to the rooftops.

“Well, not in the army, true. There were laws. Specific to the Corps. Fraternization was seen as an issue. Different reason than you think. Rank and power and those dynamics… often they don’t mix well. So people don’t brag or fall into it out of fear of repercussions. One night may be different, but something more…”

He paused. Then finished quietly.

“I thought you knew.”

Eren’s expression shifted—something dawning, something unsettled.

Levi watched him, and a slow, uncomfortable realization crept in. If Eren hadn’t known—hadn’t understood this was one of the reasons behind Levi’s caution, the distance he kept despite the intimacy they shared—then it must have been confusing. Maybe even painful.

And Levi hadn’t spelled it out.

Not once.

It made his stomach twist.

“I didn’t mean to make it harder,” he said.

“You didn’t,” Eren replied after a moment. “I just… didn’t know what was allowed. What was normal.”

“Normal’s a moving target,” Levi said. “But this—outside of the army—it’s not wrong.”

Eren nodded slowly. Levi started walking again, and this time, Eren followed with a different kind of quiet.

Not confusion.

Understanding.

The street narrowed near the well, where carts clustered and voices tangled in barter. Levi shifted the bundle under his arm, eyes scanning the crowd. A child chased a loose ribbon, laughter trailing behind. The scent of roasted chestnuts and faint vinegar from a pickle barrel drifted through the air—sharp, earthy, grounding.

Then he felt a nudge of disquiet. A gaze, sensed with acuity, as tangible as a physical touch. He knew where to expect it.

A man, broad-shouldered, stood near the pottery stall. His eyes locked onto Levi’s with a stillness that didn’t match the bustle around him. No smile. No nod. Just recognition—or something close enough to it.

Levi’s body responded before thought caught up. He shifted slightly in front of Eren, fingers brushing the knife at his hip. His stance narrowed. Breath slowed.

“Get ready to turn around and walk away. Quickly. Not run. Not here. Only when you get to the outside square,” he said, low.

Eren’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You know him? He doesn’t seem to be looking at me. You, maybe?”

“Can’t be sure,” Levi said. “Better safe than sorry. Pretend to look up and then move, so that the hood covers you. I'm not chancing anything.”

The man didn’t move. A beat. Two. Levi’s fingers twitched, ready to act, but waiting. No causing a scene. That was worse.

Then, abruptly, the man raised a hand—not toward Levi, but behind him. A second figure emerged from the crowd, younger, laughing, and the man’s face broke into a grin. He waved. The tension snapped.

Levi exhaled, slow and sharp.

Eren looked at him. “You were ready to fight.”

Levi didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the man, now embracing his friend, oblivious to the storm he’d stirred.

“I was ready to protect,” Levi said.

They walked on. Levi’s shoulders didn’t ease, not fully. The village was louder now, or maybe it just felt that way.

Eren didn’t speak again, but Levi caught the glance he gave him—curious, thoughtful, maybe even a little impressed. Levi didn’t return it. He kept his eyes forward, scanning, calculating.

He trusted his instincts. They’d kept him alive.

But Eren’s presence beside him—that was new. That was something else entirely.

The moment of uncertainty passed. They reached the market hall without further issues. As they stepped under the roof, the overhead beams darkened by age and smoke arched above them. Inside, the air shifted—cooler, denser, thick with the scent of brine, spice, and the faint tang of iron from the butcher’s corner.

Levi led them to the far stall first, where wheels of cheese sat stacked like pale suns. He pointed to a firmer wedge, then a crumbly blue-veined one, then a wax-wrapped round.

“You’re buying three?” Eren asked, brows raised.

“They keep,” Levi said. “And I’m not eating the same damn thing every day.”

The vendor, a woman with salt-gray hair and sharp eyes, nodded approvingly. “You want cold cuts too? Got smoked venison, peppered pork, and a bit of duck left.”

Levi considered. “Half of the venison. A few slices of duck. And—” he paused, then added, “—a jar of pickled onions.”

Eren blinked. “Pickled onions?”

Levi didn’t look at him. “They cut through the fat.”

The woman wrapped the goods with practiced hands. “You feeding someone new?” she asked, not unkindly.

Levi’s reply was dry. “Feeding someone stubborn.”

Eren smirked but said nothing.

The next stall was more chaotic—crates of apples, bundles of greens, and a boy shouting prices with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t yet been cheated.

Levi handed over a sack of potatoes and asparagus from their cart. “Trade. Good soil, no rot.”

The vendor inspected them, then nodded. “Fair. Take what you need.”

Levi paused, eyes scanning the bins with practiced scrutiny. He picked out a trio of bell peppers—one red, one green, one bruised but still firm—then reached for a bundle of beets, their roots tangled and earthy. A few cucumbers followed, long and uneven, the kind that wouldn’t win prizes but would pickle well.

Eren tilted his head. “You don’t grow these?”

Levi shook his head. “Too finicky. Peppers need more heat than I get. Beets attract pests. Cucumbers bolt if I blink wrong.”

Eren smirked. “So you’re buying your failures.”

Levi snorted. “I’m buying what I won’t waste time on.”

Eren picked up a pomegranate, turned it in his hand. “This one?”

Levi glanced at it. “If you want. Just don’t expect me to peel it for you.”

They moved toward the grain and dry goods stalls, the scent of flour and cracked oats thick in the air.

It was quieter, tucked between what seemed to be a wool merchant and a woman selling candles. Levi inspected the sacks, fingers brushing the coarse weave.

He had enough barley at home, and the lentils looked dusty, so he refused the offer for those.

“Not that one,” he said, pointing. “It’s for bread, not stew.”

The vendor raised a brow. “You always this picky?”

Levi’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t pay for excuses.”

He chose a heavier sack of rye flour and a small tin of sunflower seeds. Eren added a packet of dried herbs—thyme and marjoram.

“For soups,” he said.

Levi nodded. “Good choice.”

“What next?”

“Meat.” Levi confirmed simply.

The butcher was a broad man with a scar across his cheek and a voice like gravel. His stall was loud with cleavers and chatter of other people filling their stock. Levi greeted him with a nod.

“Need something that lasts,” Levi said. “And something fresh.”

The man gestured to the hanging links. “Smoked sausage. Keeps well. Got turkey, too. Fresh kill.”

Levi chose both, then added a slab of cured beef.

“The bird, you want it dressed?” the man asked, holding up the turkey—whole, featherless, its skin pale and puckered.

Levi nodded. “Leave the bones. I’ll use them.”

The man did just that as Eren leaned in. “Soup?”

Levi glanced at him. “Eventually. Breast for roasting. Legs for stew. Bones for broth.”

 “That’s a lot.”

Levi’s voice was low. “You need protein. I’m not feeding you scraps.”

The butcher wrapped the meat, then glanced between them. “You two planning a feast?”

Levi’s reply was clipped. “Planning not to come back soon.”

He paid without comment, his grip on the parcel careful, almost reverent.

Spices were last on the list. 

The first vendor had a stall that looked theatrical—bright cloths, jars stacked like trophies, prices written in looping script. Levi frowned at some of the illegible writing and turned away from a jar labeled “exotic blend” with a scoff.

Eren leaned over a tray of mustard seeds. “Why’s mustard yellow?”

Levi didn’t even glance up. “I’m not a bloody chemist.”

Eren laughed. “You’re not a cook either.”

“Exactly.”

They left the stall with nothing. Levi muttered something about “dishonest pricks.”

A few stalls down, they found another vendor—older, quieter, with spices in plain jars and prices marked in chalk. Levi exchanged a nod with the seller.

“Your neighbor tried to sell me sawdust,” Levi said.

The man chuckled. “That one? He’s all show. Been here a year, thinks flair makes up for fraud.”

Levi picked out smoked paprika, caraway and some of the mustard seeds that Eren had pointed out earlier. As he looked through his pouch for payment, Eren held up a jar of something deep green.

“Mint,” the seller said. “Good for tea. Or lamb.”

Eren added it to the pile. “You trust this one?”

Levi nodded. “He doesn’t lie. Just charges fair.”

On their way out, they passed another shop with glass jars lined in rows—candied nuts, honeyed fruit, sugar-dusted pastries. Eren slowed, then stopped.

“You ever get something here?”

Levi hesitated. “Not often.”

“Had any of these before?” he asked, nudging his chin at what looked to be sugar-coated figs.

Levi hesitated. “No. Don’t really eat much of anything sweet. Wouldn’t know where to start.”

Eren pointed to a tin of almond brittle. “That looks like it keeps. For home.”

Levi paid without protest, though his mouth twitched at the corner.

“You’re branching out,” Eren said, voice light.

Levi glanced at the parcels. “I’m stocking up. Not surrendering.”

Eren smiled. “Sure. Let’s call it tactical indulgence.”

The sun had shifted by the time they reached the edge of the market. The mare snorted as they approached, ears flicking at the sound of their boots on cobblestone. Levi adjusted the bundles in the cart, checked the straps, then glanced at Eren.

“You carried more than I expected.”

Eren shrugged. “You bought more than I expected.”

Levi handed him the sweet pouch. “Don’t eat it all before we get home.”

Eren grinned. “No promises.”

They climbed into the cart, the weight of the day settling around them—not heavy, but full.

The cart creaked gently beneath them, the mare’s steady gait a rhythm Levi had long since memorized. The buildings were changing as they moved, thinner and less impressive the further away from the center. The sun was still generous overhead. Levi sat with one hand on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, fingers twitching with a thought he hadn’t planned to entertain.

Chess. Quiet nights. The way Eren leaned forward when he was about to make a move, brows furrowed, lips parted in concentration. Levi had started to anticipate those moments more than the game itself.

But what if it wore thin? What if the silence turned stale, the routine too predictable?

His gaze flicked to the side street they were passing—narrow, shaded, and lined with crooked signs. One caught his eye: a faded wooden placard with a painted quill and a stack of books. He tugged the reins gently.

“We still have a good few hours of sun left,” he said, voice low but deliberate. “What if we picked something to read? Together.”

Eren blinked, then turned to him slowly, a smile blooming like dawn. “You want to stop at a bookshop?”

Levi didn’t answer directly. He just steered the cart toward the alley.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped in. The air was thick with dust and ink, the scent of parchment and old wood settling around them like a blanket. Shelves leaned slightly, crammed with volumes of every size and age. A cat blinked lazily from a sunlit patch near the window.

Eren’s eyes lit up immediately. “This place is amazing.”

Levi didn’t respond, but his gaze swept the room with quiet calculation. He wasn’t here for ambiance—he was here for something that would last.

They drifted apart, each pulled by instinct. Eren paused at a shelf labeled Adventure & Folklore , fingers trailing over spines. Levi found himself in a quieter corner, where the titles were less dramatic, but offering to engage in reflection. Maybe he could challenge himself for once? Not like he was pressed for time. No one was evaluating him, either.

He picked one up. The cover was simple, the title embossed in faded gold. He flipped it open and read a line aloud, almost without meaning to: “There are silences that speak louder than any confession.”

Eren turned, brows raised. “That sounds like something you’d say.”

Levi snorted. “I don’t say things like that. I just live them.”

They met in the middle, each holding a book. Eren’s was a collection of short stories with a painted cover—two figures under a tree, one reading aloud, the other listening with a smile.

“I was thinking,” Eren said, voice softer now, “about those rainy days you mentioned. When we’re stuck inside. This… this could be nice.”

Levi nodded. “Better than climbing the walls.”

They browsed together, side by side. At one point, Eren stopped in front of a shelf labeled Romance & Other Indulgences . He grinned and pulled out a familiar red spine.

“Oh look,” he said, holding it up like a trophy. “Your favorite.”

Levi rolled his eyes but didn’t snatch it away this time. Instead, he reached past Eren and picked up another from the same shelf—this one darker, subtler. The description spoke of longing, of quiet companionship, of two men finding solace in each other’s presence.

He handed it to Eren. “Not all of them are trash. Some actually have thought behind them.”

Eren’s fingers closed around the book, eyes searching Levi’s face. “You think I’d like this?”

Levi shrugged. “I don’t know what you like.”

He didn’t mean just books. That much was clear to him the moment the words left his mouth. He glanced at the shelf again, at the quiet cover in Eren’s hands, and felt the flicker of something he didn’t want to name. He wasn’t used to choosing things with someone else in mind. Wasn’t used to imagining shared evenings, or the weight of another person’s preferences folded into his own.

“Think you should decide for yourself. But if you do… get it.”

Eren didn’t move right away. His fingers lingered on the spine, his expression shifting—still warm, but touched by something more tentative. A question forming behind his eyes, not quite spoken.

There was a beat of silence. Then Eren smiled—gentle, grateful, touched in a way Levi couldn’t quite name.

“There must be something you like yourself,” Eren said, voice low, not teasing. “Why not get something both of us could enjoy?”

Levi’s gaze flicked to him, then back to the shelf. The question wasn’t casual. It was careful. An invitation, not a challenge.

He didn’t answer immediately. His fingers brushed the edge of a book, then stilled.

He knew what Eren was asking. Not just about stories or genres. About closeness. About the kind of intimacy that lived in quiet moments—shared breath, shared bodies, the slow unfolding of trust.

Levi had spent years avoiding that kind of vulnerability. Not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t know how to hold it without breaking something. Or someone.

But Eren was here. Asking. Not demanding. Just… hoping.

Levi cleared his throat, then reached for a book with a dark blue cover, the title etched in silver. It wasn’t erotic, not overtly. It was also about connection—about two people learning to live beside each other after war, after loss. Reclaiming their bodies. For themselves, but not alone. It didn’t flinch from pain or touch, but it didn’t drown in it either.

He handed it to Eren. “This one. It’s not light. But it’s honest.”

Eren turned it over, read the back, then nodded slowly. “Sounds like us.”

Levi didn’t flinch. “Maybe.”

They stood there a moment longer, the hush of the bookshop wrapping around them like a held breath. Levi could feel the weight of Eren’s question still hanging in the air—not just about the book, but about the possibility of choosing something together. Of sharing not just space, but experience. Pleasure. Comfort.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to do that. But he wasn’t pretending not to understand what Eren was offering.

Levi’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “If you find something that feels right… I’ll read it. Even if it’s not what I’d pick.”

Eren’s smile deepened, but he didn’t push. “Then I’ll try to choose well.”

They moved through the shelves again, slower now. At one point, Eren stopped in front of a small section tucked between Essays and Memoir . The covers were softer, the titles more suggestive— The Quiet Between Us , Letters Never Sent , A Room Shared .

Eren glanced at Levi, then back at the shelf. “These are about men. Together, too.”

Levi stepped beside him, eyes scanning the spines. “They’ve always been here. Just not always out front.”

Eren’s voice was quieter. “You think any of these are worth reading?”

Levi considered. “Some are. Hit and miss. Same as anything.”

He picked one up, flipped through the pages. The writing was clean, thoughtful. No melodrama. No caricature.

He handed it to Eren. “Pick one that you like.”

Eren looked at him, eyes searching. “You sure?”

Levi nodded. “I’m not offering it to be polite.”

Eren smiled again, this time with something steadier behind it. “Then I will.”

They left the shop with four books. One Levi had chosen. One Eren had picked. One they’d agreed on. And one that neither of them said much about—but both understood.

By the time they had come out of the bookshop, the sun had dipped just enough to cast long shadows across the cobbled square, softening the edges of the buildings and turning the dust golden. The cart was heavier now—bundles of cloth, jars of preserves, sacks of flour and grain tucked beside parcels of meat and cheese. A tin of brittle nestled between two books, its lid catching the light.

Levi checked the straps one last time, fingers brushing the worn leather. The mare flicked her ears, sensing the shift in mood. Eren climbed up beside him, settling into the seat with a quiet exhale.

They didn’t speak right away.

The road out of town curved gently, lined with low stone walls and the occasional tree leaning toward the path like it wanted to listen. The sounds of the market faded behind them—voices, laughter, the clatter of carts—replaced by the rhythmic creak of wheels and the soft thud of hooves.

Levi’s body ached in familiar places, but it wasn’t the pain that held his attention. It was the quiet. Not the kind that pressed, but the kind that settled. 

Eren shifted beside him, the edge of a book peeking from his satchel. “You think we got enough?”

Levi glanced at the cart. “We’ll eat. We’ll read. You’ll stop complaining.”

Eren smiled. “I wasn’t complaining.”

“No. But you were close.”

They passed the last row of houses, the village thinning into fields. Another dog barked somewhere in the distance. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of dry grass and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking left a window open.

Levi’s gaze drifted to the horizon. The sky was still blue, but the kind of blue that hinted at evening. He thought of the books. Of the soup he’d make from the bird. Of Eren, curled in the chair by the fire, reading aloud with that quiet concentration Levi had come to expect.

He didn’t say any of it.

But he let the cart roll slower. Let the moment stretch.

In the end no one had recognized Eren, no one had chased them. He didn’t comment when he chose to sit on Levi’s left side this time. As the younger man leaned back, eyes half-lidded, the sun caught in his hair. Levi didn’t look directly, but he didn’t look away either.

They were heading home.

And for the first time in a long while, Levi felt the word settle in his chest without resistance.

The wheels creaked once more over familiar gravel, the mare’s pace steady but slower now, her ears flicking at the sound of birds settling in the trees. The cottage came into view—weathered wood, slanted porch, the garden beds catching the last of the light, and the shadows stretching long across the path. No words were needed. They had made it back.

Eren jumped down first, boots thudding against the packed earth. Levi followed more slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the cart for balance. His landing was careful, deliberate. Eren noticed the wince, the way Levi’s weight shifted to one side, his limp more pronounced now than it had been that morning.

Without comment, Eren reached for the heavier bundles.

They moved in tandem—food sorted quickly, perishables tucked into the cool storage beneath the floorboards, jars and dried goods stacked in the cupboard with practiced ease. A few crates were left on the porch for later, their contents safe from spoilage. Levi unhitched the mare, murmuring low as he brushed her down, fingers steady despite the ache in his joints. Eren brought the feed without being asked.

Inside, the cottage filled with the quiet sounds of settling: cupboard doors closing, boots scraped clean at the threshold, the soft clink of glass and metal. Eren held up a small crate. “Where do you want the candles and lamp oil?”

Levi glanced over. “Top shelf in the pantry. Left side.”

Eren nodded, moving to store them. Levi unpacked the folded clothes they’d bought for Eren, handing them over without ceremony. “Bathroom’s got an empty shelf. If you want to keep them there. Take this too, there’s things for the bathroom in it. Just bring the meds back. I keep those in my room.” Levi added, handing the bundle from Maren.

Eren took them, smiling faintly. “Makes sense. I change there anyway.”

He passed the bookcase on his way and paused, placing the books they’d chosen side by side. His fingers lingered on the spines. “I’m looking forward to reading these. Seeing what we think.”

Levi didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than usual.

Eren’s voice still hung in the air, soft and unguarded. Levi watched the way his fingers traced the spines, careful and deliberate, like he was already halfway inside the stories. It was a small thing—books on a shelf—but it felt like a declaration. Not just of interest, but of permanence. Of wanting to belong.

Levi turned away before the thought settled too deep. He adjusted the lamp wick, checked the pantry latch again though it hadn’t moved, then glanced toward the bags still waiting as Eren rummaged in the bathroom.

As the last bundle was set down, Levi crouched beside one of the bags, checking it again. His brow furrowed. He stood, slower this time, and muttered, “Damn it.”

Eren turned. “Something missing?”

Levi’s jaw tightened. “Bedroll. We didn’t buy it.”

Eren blinked. “It’s fine. I’ve managed.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. He looked toward the corner where Eren had been sleeping—blankets folded neatly, the floor beneath them hard and unforgiving. Eren hadn’t complained. Just like Levi wouldn’t have. But the body told its story either way.

He’d said they’d get it. He’d meant to. But the day had pulled him in too many directions, and now Eren was still sleeping on the hard-ass floor.

Levi moved to the storage chest near the hearth, pulled it open, and retrieved a thick winter duvet—clean, heavy, rarely used.

He handed it over without meeting Eren’s eyes. “Use this. It’s better anyway.”

Eren took it, fingers brushing the fabric. “Thanks.”

Levi nodded once, then turned back toward the kitchen. “If we handle dinner efficiently, we can rest after we eat. Something simple fine with you?”

Eren was already rolling up his sleeves. “Sure. I’m not picky. What are you thinking?”

“Bread, cheese, maybe the cured meat. We’ve got pickled vegetables too,” Levi said, already reaching for the cupboard. “No point in cooking tonight.”

They worked side by side, the rhythm easy now. Eren sliced the bread while Levi portioned out the meat, their movements quiet but coordinated. The plates were plain, the food unremarkable—but after the long day, it was enough.

They ate without ceremony, the silence companionable. Eren leaned back with a sigh once they were done, rubbing his stomach. “That hit the spot.”

Levi poured the tea—one of the blends he’d chosen with Eren in mind. The scent was sharp, earthy, with a hint of citrus. Eren took a sip and grinned. “This one’s good. Bitter, but it grows on you. Just as you said.”

Levi hummed in agreement as he settled into his armchair, his own cup warm in his hands. Eren mirrored him, the overhead light casting soft light across their faces. The cottage felt less empty somehow—not crowded, just lived-in.

The food had warmed their bellies, the tea their hands. The quiet stretched, not empty but expectant.

Eren swirled the tea in his cup, watching the steam curl upward. “It’s very quiet here,” he said after a moment. “Not just tonight—always. Is that what you were hoping to find here? This type of peace?”

Levi didn’t answer right away. He took a sip, then set the cup down with deliberate care. “Quiet’s not always peace. Sometimes it’s just the absence of noise.”

Eren leaned back, gaze drifting toward the window. “Doesn’t it make you think? About things you don’t usually let in.”

Levi’s eyes flicked toward him. “Like what?”

There were many things he’d prefer to lay to rest. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they didn’t. It was ironic, really—how chasing silence allowed buried voices to come forward more clearly.

It seemed Eren’s mind veered in a similar direction.

“All the way to the village I kept thinking,” Eren said. “What if I’m recognized? Or we come across someone familiar. What would they do? What would I?”

His fingers tightened around the cup. “And then no one did. And I should have been… happy? Feel safe, maybe? Don’t get me wrong. There was relief. But then I realized—who was I expecting?”

He looked over at Levi, eyes shadowed. “I don’t even know who’s left. You and Armin. You mentioned him. But as for anyone else…”

“You didn’t know who would live?” Levi asked, voice low.

Eren shook his head slowly. “No. I didn’t.”

He set the cup aside, the clink against the table louder than it should’ve been. “I had a plan. I saw a path. But I didn’t see everything. I didn’t know who would make it. Who wouldn’t.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I sacrificed myself. But I didn’t know who I was sacrificing for.”

Levi’s gaze didn’t waver, but something behind it shifted.

Eren continued, quieter now. “I thought I had the only way forward. But I didn’t have all the cards. I just… pressed on.”

Levi’s breath was steady, but his thoughts weren’t.

He had always assumed Eren knew. That he’d seen the cost, calculated the outcome, and deemed it worth it. That the madness behind those eyes had been tempered by certainty.

But now, hearing this—Levi realized Eren hadn’t known. Not fully. Not even close.

And what did that mean?

Was it worse, or better?

Nothing about it felt good.

Levi’s fingers curled slightly against his knee. If he had been lonely by choice, then what was Eren? What kind of solitude lived in someone who had fractured from humanity on every level, each sacrifice more personal than the last?

To have deemed it worth it… Levi couldn’t understand.

He didn’t try to.

“That you then still pressed forward, not knowing…” Levi said, voice firm. “I can’t pretend to understand. And I won’t.”

Eren looked up, eyes searching.

“You now live with your choice. And we all live with its impact. Most didn’t make it. The ones who did aren’t the same.”

Levi’s voice didn’t waver. “I won’t take that weight off your shoulders fully. That you’re not in their lives—or know of their deaths—was as much your own decision as mine to keep myself away.”

Eren’s expression shifted—pain, yes, but something steadier beneath it. He nodded slowly, then looked toward the window again.

“Some things I knew,” he said, expression suddenly eerily void of emotions. “Others I suspected. But no… not all was there for me to see.”

Meanwhile, the light outside had softened, casting long shadows across the floorboards. The air was warm, still, the kind that made movement feel optional. Levi leaned back in his chair, weighing his next word carefully. 

“I’ve done things I don’t speak of. But I live with them. You—are you going to live with yours, or just survive until something breaks again?”

Eren’s gaze didn’t shift, but something in his posture did—shoulders drawing in, jaw tightening. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but weighted.

“I’m trying,” he said finally. “That’s all I can say right now.”

Levi didn’t press. He watched Eren for a moment longer, then looked down at his mug. The tea had gone cold. He didn’t mind.

The soft creak of the armchair filled the space as Eren leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers brushing the edge of the small table between them. 

“Do you think they’d hate me?”, He asked, as he absently traced a faded ring from an old spill. 

Levi didn’t look up.

“They’d hate what you became. Not who you are now.”

That landed. Eren’s breath caught, barely audible. He nodded, once, but didn’t speak. Levi glanced at him then—just a flick of the eyes—and saw the distance reawakening. Not from him, but from the present. Eren was somewhere else again, somewhere unreachable.

But he didn’t let it take him. Not fully.

“I think about them a lot,” Eren said, voice low. “Not just what they’d say. What they’d need to hear.”

Levi nodded. That was enough.

The room settled. 

Outside, a bird called once, then went quiet.

Inside, neither of them moved.

Chapter Text

Levi woke to pain.

Not the kind that shouted, but the kind that settled in quietly, like an unwelcome guest who knew the house too well. It wasn’t the sun that greeted him—it was the weight in his joints, the dull throb in his spine, the ache that mapped itself across his body like a story he couldn’t abandon mid-sentence.

He didn’t need to move to know it was going to be one of the bad days. The kind where gravity pressed harder, where every step would be a negotiation. His muscles felt heavy, his bones reluctant. Even his breath seemed to carry resistance.

He lay still for a moment, eyes on the ceiling, cataloguing the pain. Shoulders. Left knee. Right wrist all the way down to his missing two fingers. Lower back. And something new in his neck, sharp and insistent. He’d learn more about it as the day went on. That was the deal.

Eventually, he shifted. Slowly. Deliberately. The blanket felt heavier than usual, the floor colder. He sat up, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress, and reached for his clothes. The shirt was easy. The pants less so. Socks were a battle.

He moved toward the bathroom, steps uneven, favoring his left side. Eren was still asleep—Levi could hear the steady rhythm of his breath from the other room. Good. He didn’t want to be seen like this. Not yet.

The bathroom was quiet, the light soft. Levi gripped the edge of the sink, steadying himself before reaching for the toothbrush. Squeezing the paste took more effort than it should have. Lifting the comb to his hair was worse—his shoulder protested, sharp and immediate.

He didn’t wince. But he paused.

These were the things he didn’t think about on good days. The small, mundane movements that made up a life. Today, each one was a reminder.

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the light had shifted. Eren was up now, sorting herbs at the counter. Levi didn’t speak. He moved to the stove, reached for the kettle.

His fingers trembled.

The kettle scraped against the metal, louder than it should have been. Levi’s jaw tightened. He tried again. The grip faltered. The cast ceramic was not his ally. 

Eren looked up. Watched.

“Let me help,” he said, voice low.

Levi didn’t look at him. “I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Eren crossed the room, steps soft against the wood. He reached out, fingers brushing Levi’s wrist before taking the kettle. His touch was warm. Steady. Levi didn’t pull away.

The kettle was set down gently. Eren poured the water, added the leaves Levi preferred. The scent rose—sharp, earthy, familiar.

Levi’s hand rested on the table now, palm flat, tension visible in the way his shoulders held.

“You should sit back,” Eren said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Levi didn’t argue. Not this time. He shifted slowly, easing into the chair with a quiet grunt. Eren moved around him, adding a cushion behind his back without comment—stolen from one of the nearby armchairs.

The ache of Levi’s rising chest felt like an interruption of peace.

Eren sat across from him, elbows on the table, watching the steam rise between them.

“You always push through,” he said. “Even when it hurts.”

Levi’s gaze met his. “That’s how I’ve lasted. You did it too.”

Eren nodded. “But you’re not alone now.”

That landed harder than it should have. Levi looked away, eyes tracing the plant pattern on Eren’s mug.

“I don’t know how to be helped,” he said. The reveal stuck to his tongue before he forced it. 

Eren’s voice was quiet. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let it happen.”

It was meant to sound easy. It didn’t. But not longer impossible.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Inside, the tea steeped. Levi didn’t move. Eren didn’t press.

The pain didn’t vanish. But it was seen.

And for Levi, that was new.

He glanced toward the hallway, then back at Eren.

“There’s a bottle in my room. Pain meds. Top shelf, left side.”

Eren stood without hesitation. “I’ll get it.”

As he reached Levi’s door, he paused. It was the first time he’d entered the space alone. The room was spare, functional—bed neatly made, shelves lined with folded clothes, a desk, a few books stacked with precision. 

The bottle was where Levi said, but beside it sat the small jar of rub from the apothecary. Pale green, faintly herbal. He remembered the apothecary’s knowing smile, Maren’s teasing nudge, and his own words: “I’ll make sure he rests.”

He hadn’t known then how visible Levi’s pain would become. Or how much he’d want to ease it.

He picked up both.

Back in the kitchen, he handed Levi the bottle first. Levi took it, dry swallow, no comment.

Then, hesitant, Eren held out the jar.

“Would this not help as well?”

Levi’s eyes flicked to it, then to Eren. 

“Yeah. That’s what it’s meant for. Normally I use it on my ankle and knees. Lower back if it acts up.”

Eren nodded, setting the jar down gently. His hand stayed on the lid.

“What hurts today then?”

Levi exhaled through his nose. “Shoulders. Neck. Too optimistic lifting all that at the market.”

He looked at the jar, then back at Eren. “Don’t think there’s a world in which I can put this on without making it worse first.”

Eren’s fingers tightened around the jar. Then, quietly:

“I could do it. If you want.”

Levi didn’t answer. Not immediately. His mind moved through the implications—touch, exposure, vulnerability. But the pain was real. And Eren’s offer wasn’t pity. It was care.

A touch with a purpose.

“Okay.”

Eren stepped behind him, hands steady but waiting.

Levi’s fingers hovered above the top button of his shirt. A small thing. But even this felt like a decision. The fabric was stiff from wear, the buttons small and stubborn. He pressed one through the hole, then the next. His hands ached—thumbs clumsy, the ache in his joints flaring with each motion. It wasn’t just Eren’s presence that made it difficult. It was the act itself: undoing, exposing, allowing.

He didn’t look back.

Eren said nothing, only waited.

When the last button came free, Levi pushed the shirt off his shoulders. It slid down slowly, catching at his elbows before he let it fall to the sides. His upper back was bare now—pale skin marked by old scars, tension visible in the way his muscles held tight across his shoulder blades.

Eren catalogued it quietly. The curve of Levi’s spine, the faint bruising near the left shoulder, the way the skin pulled taut over bone. He saw the toll of the market day, the weight Levi had carried without complaint.

“I’m going to touch you now,” Eren said softly.

Levi nodded once. 

The first touch was cool, then warm. Eren’s fingers moved with care, tracing the muscle, working the rub in slowly.

Levi’s breath caught. Not from pain. From the unfamiliar sensation of being tended to.

His skin responded before he could brace for it, nerves flaring not from pain but from sensation. It had been a long time since someone touched him like this. Not in battle. Not in urgency. Just to help.

He felt the rub sink in, the tension in his shoulders resisting, then slowly giving way. Eren’s hands moved with care, not precision—he wasn’t trained, but he was attentive. Levi could feel the difference. The way Eren paused when he hit a knot, adjusted pressure, didn’t rush.

It was strange.

Not comfort. Not exactly.

But not isolation either.

Levi’s breath slowed. The ache didn’t vanish, but it shifted—less sharp, less solitary. He could feel the rhythm of Eren’s breathing behind him, steady and close. The warmth of his hands. The quiet of the room.

Not impossible.

Levi didn’t fight it.

Eren focused on the motion—small circles, gentle pressure. Levi’s skin was warm beneath his fingers, the tension palpable. He remembered the way Levi had clenched his jaw lifting the kettle that morning, the tremor in his hand.

He hadn’t said a word then.

Now, he’d let Eren in.

Eren didn’t want to break the moment. He didn’t want to make it about anything but care. But something in him stirred—an ache, quiet and persistent.

This wasn’t about desire. It was about being allowed to help.

Allowed to stay.

He moved to the other shoulder, slower this time. Levi didn’t flinch.

Eren thought of the apothecary again. The scent of soap, the way Levi had blushed when Eren said “I like smelling like you.” The way Levi hadn’t argued when Eren promised to make sure he rested.

He hadn’t known then how much that promise would matter.

Now he did.

Levi’s breath had steadied, his body no longer braced for pain. Eren could feel the shift—not just in muscle, but in trust. The silence between them was full of everything they hadn’t said. Everything they didn’t need to.

Eren’s hands slowed, resting lightly on Levi’s back. He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t want to.

He watched the way Levi’s shoulders rose and fell, the way his head dipped slightly forward. Vulnerable. Still.

Eren swallowed.

He wanted to say something. To name the moment. But Levi had given him this—quiet, closeness, care—and Eren didn’t want to take more than was offered.

“You’re done.” Levi’s voice was low, a statement, not a dismissal.

Yet he didn’t move. Eren’s palms still rested lightly on his back.

“I am,” Eren said, though his fingers lingered, caught between purpose and pause. Levi’s breath moved beneath them, slow and deliberate, shifting Eren with each rise and fall.

“I can feel you thinking.”

Eren hesitated. “Your back is strong.”

“Sure doesn’t feel it.”

“It carried a lot.”

Levi knew he didn’t mean yesterday only.

“I’m sure it does its best,” Eren said. “Maybe sometimes it just needs someone to tell it when to rest?”

Levi’s mouth twitched. “Maybe it does. Maybe we all do.”

Eren’s fingertips traced absent circles where they were, unconscious, delicate. It was no longer the rub—it was something else. Levi’s skin began to prickle under the touch, awareness narrowing to those small points of contact.

Too much.

“Thank you, Eren.” The words were genuine. And a retreat.

Eren pulled back slowly, hands falling to his sides. He didn’t speak, didn’t argue. Just gave Levi space.

Levi shifted, rolling his shoulders once, testing the ache. It was still there. But dulled. Not just by the balm.

By the care.

He glanced sideways, catching Eren’s profile—serious, uncertain, waiting.

“You’re not bad at this,” Levi said.

“At rubbing backs?”

“At staying.”

Eren’s eyes met his, startled, then softened. “I meant it. I’ll make sure you rest.”

Levi looked away, but once more didn’t deny it.

It was a little easier to breathe as the day passed into night, knowing this time he had chosen acceptance.

The morning was bright, the kind that made the world feel deceptively simple. Sunlight spilled across the grass in long, golden strokes, and the air held that early hush—soft, expectant, untouched. Eren stepped out of the house with a quiet purpose, a small tin of feed tucked under his arm. The birds would be waiting, clustered near the coop with their usual impatience. It was a rhythm he’d grown used to. One of the few things that didn’t ask anything of him.

He moved toward the right, boots brushing against dew-heavy blades, but something caught his eye before he reached the coop. A glint—sharp, white—reflected off the gate ahead. He paused, squinting slightly. The letter box, nailed to the inside of the gate, had always been empty. A relic, really. Levi never received mail. No one wrote. No one dared.

But now, something jutted from it. A clean envelope, stark against the weathered wood, catching the sun like it wanted to be seen.

Eren frowned, curiosity tugging at him. He veered off course, steps slow, deliberate.

From up close he could see it better. It was an envelope. Clean, simple—no adornments. Tacked in place like it had been left with care. He reached for it without thinking, fingers brushing the edge before pulling it free. He didn’t open it. That wasn’t his place. Levi would want to see it first.

But then he saw the name.

Mikasa Ackerman.

The ink was bold. Black. Familiar in its precision. And it hit him like a blow to the chest.

His breath caught. The world narrowed. Mikasa. His sister. His friend. His executioner.

Alive.

Writing to Levi.

Not him.

His fingers tightened around the envelope, the paper crinkling slightly under the pressure. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t. She couldn’t. That he was here. That he’d found Levi. That Levi had let him stay. That he’d been allowed warmth, routine, a place to sleep that didn’t reek of blood and ash.

She was reaching out. To Levi. Not knowing Eren had wormed his way into the quiet life Levi had built. Not knowing he’d stolen something sacred. Something she’d probably never been offered.

His hand hovered over the door handle. He could walk in. He should. But her name burned against his skin. What would she say if she knew? What would she do?

Would she come here? Would she tear this down? Should he let her?

Would she hate him more than she already did?

He couldn’t move. Not forward. Not into the house where Levi was probably making tea or feeding the mare or folding laundry with that quiet efficiency Eren had come to crave.

He looked down at the envelope again. It felt heavier now. Like it carried more than words. Like it carried judgment.

He stepped back. Just slightly. Then reached forward and slid the letter into the narrow space between the doorframe and the wood. Not inside. Not discarded. Just… out of his hands.

One step back.

Then another.

And then he turned.

The gate was still open. He didn’t bother closing it.

He ran.

Through the field. Past the trees. Into the quiet that didn’t ask questions.

That morning, the aches of yesterday were muted. The meds helped, but it was Eren’s hands—steady, insistent—that had brought them to a much more livable level. That Levi had slept longer was probably also contributing. Levi had slept longer than usual, which was rare. The quiet felt earned.

Waking late was surprising. Seeing Eren’s bed already made, though—not so much. Another gesture. Another quiet offering. Eren had taken the first feeding.

Washing up and dressing wasn’t effortless, but it wasn’t agony either. Levi moved slowly. He prepared breakfast and tea. They’d eat together, as had become their rhythm.

Millet porridge with nuts and berries. It gave energy, and Levi liked the nutty taste of the groats. He rinsed the millet, washed the fruit, set it to boil. The kettle whistled. Steam curled into the wooden ceiling.

The food was ready.

Levi glanced at the door.

Eren should’ve been back.

He’d woken nearly an hour later than usual. The minutes stretched. The silence shifted—from peace to absence.

He waited. Another moment. Then another.

No harm in checking. This was his ground.

The door creaked open as he stepped out. A sudden sound—a soft thud—made him pause. Something had fallen to the wooden porch. He looked down.

A letter.

He bent, fingers brushing the edge. The paper was cool from the morning air, edges crisp. The handwriting—unmistakable.

Mikasa.

Levi’s breath caught, just for a second. The delivery man knew better than to step past the gate. The letter would have been left in the letterbox, not at his doorstep.

He turned the envelope over, thumb grazing the seal. His mind began to move—quick, sharp. Possibilities surged. Eren had left it. That much was clear. 

But why? 

He looked toward the gate—left gaping open—then back at the paper in his hand. The porch felt colder now. Not from the weather. From the weight of what might be missing.

He could wait. Assume this was temporary. That Eren had needed air, space, time. 

But the way the envelope had been placed—deliberate, careful—made that feel like a lie.

Levi’s thoughts tangled. Was he being ridiculous? Was this sentiment, not logic? 

Giving space for two people to grow closer—wasn’t that the danger? You didn’t know if what you wanted to do was rational or just emotional noise.

What good would it bring if he chased after Eren like a mother hen?

It wasn’t what Levi did.

Still… he remembered the way Eren had looked a few nights ago. The words about war. About hate. About how things with Mikasa had ended—not with fury, but with silence. With distance. And then death. With a kind of grief that didn’t ask permission.

The envelope remained sealed. 

Had the reminder of the outside world—of his once closest friend—been enough to chase Eren out?

Levi’s grip tightened.

If he was wrong—if he was reading too much into things—what harm would it bring? 

He could spare another piece of armor. 

Just one.

He stepped off the porch.

The envelope was tucked into his pant pocket, but Levi felt its presence like a weight. He scanned the yard—no signs of struggle, no mess. The gate swung gently in the breeze, hinges creaking like a whisper.

He moved forward, boots crunching over gravel softened by dew. The morning air was cool, tinged with the scent of damp wood and distant pine. A bird called overhead, sharp and brief. Levi’s eyes followed the sound, then dropped again to the ground.

Tracks.

Faint, but there. Eren’s boots—heavier than Levi’s, slightly longer stride. They led toward the meadow.

Levi followed.

His steps were measured, but his thoughts weren’t. Was he overreacting? Maybe Eren had just needed space. But how settled had he really been? A few days of routine couldn’t undo years of grief. Levi knew that better than anyone.

The meadow opened up before him, tall grasses swaying in the wind. Wildflowers dotted the field—bluebells, clover, a few stubborn poppies. Bees hovered lazily, and the sun was beginning to warm the earth.

Levi paused.

Eren had seemed calmer lately. But calm wasn’t the same as peace. And peace wasn’t the same as healing.

He crouched, fingers brushing a bent stalk. The bootprint was clearer here. Still fresh.

He rose again, gaze sweeping the horizon. The woods loomed ahead, darker, quieter. If Eren had gone to clear his head, he might’ve stopped at the edge. But if he’d gone deeper…

Levi’s jaw tightened.

There was no way to know if this was a spiral or just a walk. But since when had he expected to predict every reaction of Eren’s? That wasn’t trust. That was control. And Levi had promised himself he wouldn’t do that—not to Eren. Not again.

Still, the envelope. Mikasa’s name. The gate left open.

He stepped into the woods.

The air changed—cooler, shaded. The scent of moss and bark replaced the meadow’s sweetness. Branches creaked above, and the ground was soft with fallen leaves. Levi moved quietly, scanning for broken twigs, disturbed underbrush.

A squirrel darted past, chattering. Levi ignored it.

He found another print. Then another.

The path curved slightly, and then—light ahead.

A clearing.

Levi stepped through, and the world opened again. Sunlight spilled across the grass, and on the far side, a stream ran clear and fast, its surface catching the light like glass.

And there—Eren.

Sitting on a flat stone near the water, back to Levi. Shoulders hunched, head bowed. Still.

He took in the scene—the quiet rush of water, the way the breeze stirred Eren’s hair, the stillness that felt less like peace and more like pause.

Levi stepped forward, slow and measured, boots brushing against the undergrowth. He circled slightly, settling on Eren’s right side—close enough to see him clearly, but not crowding. He lowered himself onto the grass, knees folding with care. The ground was cool beneath him, the scent of moss and river water rising with the breeze.

He didn’t reach out. Didn’t ask.

He offered presence. Nothing more.

The stream murmured beside them. A bird called once, then went quiet. Levi watched Eren’s breathing—shallow, uneven, then slowly deepening. A shift. Not in posture, but in awareness.

Eren’s body registered him first.

The scent—cedar, soap flakes, something faintly metallic—familiar. Levi.

His shoulders twitched. Not startled. Just… aware.

Levi waited.

The wind stirred the leaves. A rabbit darted across the clearing, pausing at the edge of the stream before vanishing into the brush. Levi’s gaze remained steady, his body imitated Eren’s stillness.

Then, after what felt like a long time—

“I don’t know if I deserve this.”

Eren’s voice was quiet. Not broken. But fragile.

Levi didn’t answer. Not immediately.

Eren’s fingers curled against his knees, nails pressing into fabric. He didn’t look at Levi.

“I don’t know if I deserve you.”

Eren’s words hung in the air, soft but heavy. 

So that was it. Mikasa’s name on the envelope hadn’t just reminded Eren of the world outside—it had reminded him of the fracture. Of the people he’d lost. The ones he’d hurt. The ones who’d hurt him back.

And Levi was here. Present. Steady. Easier to face than a ghost.

Was that why Eren had run? Because Levi was the one thing he hadn’t yet lost?

Levi’s gaze stayed on the stream, its surface broken by small ripples, light catching and scattering. He didn’t know what Eren had expected to find out here. Clarity? Punishment? Forgiveness?

But Levi knew this: grief didn’t ask permission. And guilt didn’t wait for logic.

He exhaled slowly.

Then spoke.

“You don’t get to decide that.” 

His voice was quiet. Even.

“I’ve said it once. You don’t get to measure what you deserve. Not here. Not with me. Nothing changes that. Not her ,” he added pointedly. “Not anyone else.” The ‘But me ’ lingered in his throat, but he swallowed it down. 

Eren blinked, as if Levi’s words had struck something he hadn’t braced for.

Not her. Not anyone else.

It wasn’t anger in Levi’s tone. It wasn’t even defiance. It was something colder. Cleaner. A truth that didn’t ask for agreement.

Eren looked down at his hands. They were steady now, but he remembered when they hadn’t been. When they’d trembled with rage, with fear, with the weight of choices he couldn’t take back.

And Levi—Levi had seen all of it. Had stayed.

Eren’s voice was quiet. “She always knew who I was. Even when I didn’t. That’s why she did what she did.”

He paused, fingers curling against grass.

“But you… you never tried to hold me in place.”

Levi didn’t respond immediately. The stream murmured beside them, steady and indifferent.

Eren continued, voice barely above the wind. “You didn’t tell me who to be, even when you fought against my actions.”

Levi’s gaze stayed on the water. His thoughts moved slowly, deliberately.

“I didn’t think it was my place,” he said. “You made your choices. I made mine.”

Eren turned slightly, just enough to catch Levi’s profile.

“She wanted me safe. You wanted me free.”

Levi’s jaw tightened. “I wanted you to know the difference.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it felt heavier.

Eren’s voice cracked. “Do you regret it? Not stopping me?”

Levi didn’t look at him. “I regret what you did.”

A beat.

“But I don’t regret letting you choose.”

Eren swallowed hard. “Even when it cost everything?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in memory. “You were never mine to control. I fought you when I had to. I stood against you when I believed it mattered. But I never wanted to own your soul.”

He finally turned to face Eren. “You were already carrying too much.”

Eren’s breath hitched.

He looked down at his hands, the same hands that had once gripped blades for freedom, and later, for destruction.

“I thought I had to carry it alone,” he said. “That if I didn’t, it would all fall apart.”

His voice was raw now, stripped of defiance. “But maybe I just didn’t know how to ask for help without giving up who I was.”

Levi didn’t interrupt.

Eren glanced at him. “You didn’t try to save me. Not the way she did.”

Levi’s eyes met his. “No.”

Eren nodded slowly. “But you didn’t let me go, either.”

Levi’s reply was quiet. “I stayed where I needed to be.”

Eren swallowed. “How do you reconcile that? We both know I chose what you never would have, but you’re here with me when even I…”

His voice faltered, trailing into the quiet.

Levi didn’t move. “You think I came here because I forgave you?”

Eren didn’t answer.

Levi’s gaze was steady. “I didn’t.”

The wind stirred the grass around them.

“I came because I knew what it cost you,” Levi said. “And because someone had to remember who you were before all this.”

Eren’s breath caught. “You think that still matters?”

Levi’s voice was steady. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

The words echoed—not loud, but persistent. They didn’t absolve. They didn’t comfort. But they landed somewhere deep, where guilt had long made its home.

He looked at Levi—not fully, just enough to see the line of his jaw, the way his gaze stayed fixed on the stream like it held answers neither of them could name.

Levi had fought him. Had stood against him when it mattered. Had watched the world burn and still chosen to be here.

Not because he agreed.

But because he remembered.

Eren’s chest tightened. Not with shame. Not with grief. With something quieter. Something like relief.

He hadn’t expected to be remembered.

Not like this.

He turned back to the water, watching the current pull light across its surface. It didn’t stop. It didn’t ask. It just moved.

And Levi—Levi hadn’t asked either.

He’d just stayed.

Eren’s fingers brushed the grass again, absently this time.

The stream still moved. Levi still sat beside him. And the silence—though no longer sharp—had begun to stretch.

But the letter hadn’t left his mind.

It was Levi who had it. Levi who had found it. Levi who had come because of it.

Eren swallowed.

“She wrote to you,” he said, voice low.

Levi didn’t respond, but Eren wasn’t expecting confirmation. He’d seen the envelope. Recognized the handwriting. That was enough.

Levi shifted slightly, the movement barely perceptible.

“She used to do that before,” he said. “The first year I was here. Letters. Not often. Just enough to remind me I hadn’t vanished.”

Eren turned toward him, listening.

“I replied once,” Levi continued. “Told her I was settled. That nothing was needed. That she should live her life without reminders.”

His hand moved to his pocket, resting lightly over the envelope.

“She stopped after that.”

“And now?” he asked, voice barely above the water’s whisper.

Levi didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it was quiet. Measured.

“Now she wrote again.”

“Why do you think?” Eren asked.

Levi exhaled through his nose. “Maybe something changed. Can’t say really. I was never good at reading her unless it came to you.”

Eren’s muscles tensed. Just enough to shift the rhythm of his breaths. That Levi had said it so plainly made it land harder. He continued before Eren could question it.

“I didn’t expect it,” he said. “Not after all this time. Not after I made it clear I wasn’t coming back.”

“But you kept it,” Eren said again.

Levi looked at him then. “I went to find you.”

Eren boxed the feeling that evoked for later. 

His next question cut through the stillness like a ripple.

“Do you plan to read it?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. His fingers shifted against the fabric of his pocket, brushing the envelope like it might speak first.

The question hung between them—not just about the letter, but about what it might unlock. What it might disturb.

Levi’s gaze stayed on the stream, then drifted upward, following the slow sway of the branches overhead. A single leaf detached, spiraling down toward the water.

“I wasn’t sure,” he said. “Didn’t know if it was meant to be read or just sent.”

Eren didn’t move, but something in his posture leaned forward—barely. Like the moment before a breath.

Levi reached into his pocket.

The envelope was worn at the edges, the paper soft from being handled too many times without resolve. He turned it once in his hand, then broke the seal.

Eren watched, silent.

Levi unfolded the letter slowly. His eyes scanned the first lines, and something in his shoulders shifted—tightened, then stilled.

The stream murmured beside them, indifferent.

A breeze moved through the clearing, lifting the edge of the letter in Levi’s hand. He caught it absently, but his focus didn’t break.

Eren saw the way Levi’s brow furrowed—not in confusion, but in effort. Each line seemed to ask something of him. Not just to be understood, but to be felt.

His grip on the paper changed. Softer now.

Eren’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what she’d written. Didn’t need to. But watching Levi read it—watching him absorb something that had come from the same world Eren had left behind—made it real in a way nothing else had.

He wondered what it said.

He wondered why now.

He wondered if Mikasa had known Levi would still be the one to carry it.

A bird called once once more from the canopy nearby and was answered by another, farther off. The clearing held its breath.

Levi folded the letter once, then again, and tucked it back into his pocket.

“She said they’re rebuilding,” he said finally. “That most people are doing as well as they can.”

Eren didn’t move.

“There’s a memorial,” Levi added. “In Mitras. A statue. For the Corps.”

He paused.

“Erwin. Hange. Me.”

Eren’s breath caught.

“She thought I should know.”

Levi’s voice was quiet. Not strained. Just… distant.

“She didn’t ask anything of me. Just that it’s there. That it’s done.”

Eren looked down at his hands. All the possibilities he’d imagined—the grief, the blame, the longing—none of them had come. Just a letter. Just a memory carved in stone.

“She didn’t know I was still alive,” Levi said. “Not for sure. But she sent it anyway.”

Eren nodded, slowly. “So you’d remember.”

Levi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Erwin. Hange.

Their names weren’t just etched into stone. They were etched into Levi. Into the way he moved, the way he chose silence over speech, the way he still scanned the horizon like someone was counting on him.

He imagined the statue. Probably too tall. Probably Erwin’s chin tilted upward, like he was looking past the world. Hange would be mid-motion, arms flung wide, eyes bright even in bronze.

He hated that he could picture it.

He hated that it was beautiful.

Levi had never cared for monuments. They were for the living. For the ones who needed to believe that sacrifice meant something. That it was remembered.

But Mikasa had sent the letter. And she hadn’t asked for anything. Just let him know.

It was enough to make him feel the absence again. Not the sharp kind. The kind that settled in your bones and made you move slower, think longer.

He looked at Eren, who hadn’t spoken. Who was waiting.

“They deserved it,” Levi said, not bitterly. Just truthfully.

The words hung in the air like something elemental—like stone, or wind. Not meant to be debated. Just known.

He didn’t mean the statue. Not really. He meant the memory. The place they held. The way their names still moved through the world, even if their voices didn’t.

Erwin’s conviction. Hange’s fire. The way they had burned so brightly, so completely, that Levi had never needed to ask if it was worth it. He had known.

He had chosen.

And he had seen them again, once. In that place beyond the veil. Not in dreams. Not in madness. In something deeper. Something that had made him understand: their sacrifice had not been for nothing.

So no—he didn’t wish they had lived instead. That wasn’t the point.

The point was that they had mattered. That they still did.

And Mikasa’s letter, in its quiet way, had reminded him of that. Not with grief. Not with longing. Just with presence.

He let the silence settle again. It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like respect.

Eren watched Levi in silence.

There was something about him—something that had always been there, but that Eren hadn’t truly understood until now. It wasn’t just the strength in his limbs, the precision in his movements. It was the steadiness. The way Levi carried the weight of memory without letting it bend him.

He didn’t speak of pain. He didn’t ask for understanding. He simply remembered. And he honored.

Eren felt the difference between them then—not as a divide, but as a mirror. They had both made choices. Both been loyal. Both lost more than they could name.

But Levi’s loyalty had shaped him into something enduring. Something still.

Eren’s had burned him alive.

And yet, here they were. Side by side. Not by design. Not by fate. But by some miracle neither of them had asked for.

Eren didn’t know what the others would have thought of his return. He didn’t know if they would have welcomed it, feared it, cursed it. But he knew this: he wouldn’t decide for them. Not anymore.

He would live the days he had. Not as penance. Not as proof.

But as honor.

Like Levi did.

He looked at the man beside him—scarred, silent, strong—and felt something settle in his chest. Not peace. Not yet.

But something close.

He would never forget what he had done. And he wouldn’t ask Levi to forget either.

But he would remember this moment. This quiet. This grace.

And he would carry it forward.

The breeze moved gently through the clearing, stirring the grass, brushing past them like a breath too soft to name.

Levi sat still, the letter folded in his pocket, the past folded with it.

Eren didn’t move for a long time. Then, softly:

“Levi?”

“Mhm.”

The sound was low, almost absentminded. But present.

Eren hesitated. Then—

“Thank you.”

Levi glanced at him, one brow barely lifting. “For what?”

Eren’s gaze stayed on the water. “For finding me. Making it matter. For keeping a piece of your memory open for me, too.”

Levi didn’t respond right away. The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.

Then, simply—

“You’re here.”

It wasn’t a dismissal. It wasn’t an answer.

It was enough.

And the stream kept moving.

The house was quiet, save for the soft clatter of knives and the low simmer of water on the stove.

Steam curled upward from the pot, carrying the scent of turkey bones and root vegetables. It was the kind of smell that settled into the walls, into memory.

Earlier, Levi had laid out the plan with quiet precision: breast for roasting, legs for stew, bones for broth. The wings went in whole—less meat, more marrow. He’d set the rest aside, wrapped and labeled. Nothing wasted. Nothing rushed.

Eren had watched, hands still, absorbing the method behind the choices. Levi didn’t explain everything, but he didn’t hide it either.

Now, they moved through the rest of the prep. Levi stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up, wrist flicking with practiced precision as he chopped carrots. Eren hovered nearby, uncertain but willing, a cutting board of his own in front of him.

“Not like that,” Levi said, without looking. “Angle the blade. Let it do the work.”

Eren adjusted his grip. The carrot gave way more easily this time.

They worked in tandem—onions peeled, celery snapped, garlic crushed. Levi didn’t rush him. He didn’t correct every mistake. He let Eren find the rhythm.

As Eren stirred the pot, Levi’s gaze lingered on the steam rising from it. The scent was familiar, but not routine. This wasn’t just soup. It was something else.

He thought of the forest. Of Eren, sitting there with the letter in his hands. Not well—but not gone. Not far from home after all.

The honesty had surprised him. The memories they’d shared, the weight of them. Levi hadn’t expected it to feel like relief.

This—cooking together—was a ritual of its own. Not grand. Not loud. But deliberate. A way to mark the shift without naming it.

Eren glanced at him. “You do this often?”

Levi shrugged. “When I can. Soup lasts. Doesn’t ask much of you once it’s going.”

Eren nodded, watching the broth deepen in color. “It smells like something that’s been waiting to be made.”

Levi paused, then said quietly, “It’s what you make when someone needs to feel better.”

The words hung there, soft and unadorned.

Eren stirred the pot, careful not to splash. “So... this is for me?”

Levi didn’t answer right away. He added a bay leaf, a pinch of salt. Then:

“It’s for both of us.”

Outside, the wind pressed gently against the windows. Inside, the kitchen was warm.

Eren smiled, just a little. “Thanks for letting me help.”

Levi glanced at him, eyes unreadable but not cold. “You’re not just helping. You’re part of it.”

Moments passed and the remaining soup simmered low now, the scent richer, deeper. The kind that settled into the corners of the house and stayed.

They sat at the table, bowls steaming between them. The light outside had softened, casting long shadows across the floorboards. Gentle.

Eren took a spoonful, then another. He didn’t speak right away.

Levi watched him, not with expectation, but with quiet attention. The kind that didn’t press.

Eren set his spoon down, fingers curling around the bowl.

“It’s good, you know?” he said. “Feeling like that again. I didn’t think... I’d ever get that again.”

Levi didn’t look up immediately. He stirred his own bowl once, then let the spoon rest.

“I know,” he said. “I wasn’t so sure for myself, either.”

The words weren’t grave. Just sincere.

Eren leaned back slightly, gaze drifting toward the window. The wind had quieted. The trees outside stood still.

“If it’s like this,” he said, voice low, “I don’t mind being wrong.”

Levi didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

The soup between them steamed gently. The house held its calmness.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like something was beginning.

Not loudly.

But truly.

The soup was finished, and the dishes were cleaned. The house was quiet again, but not empty. Something lingered—an undercurrent of energy that Levi felt thrumming through him. Not anxious. Not restless. Just something that needed direction.

Eren had settled with a book, legs tucked beneath him, the light soft against his face. Levi watched him for a moment, then turned away. He was too wired to sit. The conversation earlier had stirred more than memory.

A walk felt prudent.

Not far. Just enough to chase the tightness from his legs and back. To burn off the heat that had settled in his chest, the kind that wasn’t physical but still demanded motion.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, already reaching for his coat.

Eren looked up, nodded once. “Alright.”

And Levi stepped out into the first beginnings of night.

The gravel crunched beneath his boots, repetitive and crackling. The air was cool, not biting, and the sky above still held the last hues of twilight—indigo bleeding into deeper blue. Levi walked with purpose, but not haste. His body welcomed the motion, the stretch, the rhythm.

He unbuttoned his shirt halfway, letting the night air settle against his skin. It wasn’t rebellion. Just relief. The warmth from the house still clung to him, and he needed it gone—needed to feel the present, not the echo of comfort.

There was no destination. Just the path that curved past the barn and into the sparse trees beyond. He didn’t go far. He knew his limits. But he also knew the value of solitude, of letting thoughts rise without interruption.

The ghosts didn’t speak tonight. They didn’t need to. Their presence was quieter now, less demanding. Levi didn’t chase them away. He let them walk beside him, silent companions in the dusk.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, where the grass gave way to stone and the wind picked up just enough to stir the leaves. His hand rested on his hip, fingers curling slightly as if bracing against something unseen. Healing, yes. But not whole.

He stood there for a long moment, watching the sky darken. 

The quiet reminded him of the walk back from the forest—how Eren had matched his pace without comment, how the silence between them had felt earned, not empty . Then the soup, the shared table, the aftermath of words spoken plainly, without armor. Not everything had been said, but enough. 

Levi’s gaze drifted toward the house, though it was out of sight now. He pictured Eren as he’d left him: curled into the armchair, book in hand, the lamplight catching the curve of his cheek. His skin looked different these days. Less drawn. Less grey. As if something inside him had begun to thaw, to return.

It was a quiet kind of vitality. Not loud, not sudden. But Levi noticed it. Had been noticing it.

And in that moment, the image of Eren—comfortable, at ease, alive—settled into Levi like warmth finding its way into cold, numb limbs. Not jarring. Just gradual. Certain. The kind of feeling you don’t realize you’ve missed until it’s there again.

He turned, finally, and began the walk back.

The door gave a soft creak as Levi pushed it open, the evening air trailing in behind him. He stepped inside, collar unbuttoned, the skin at his throat still carrying the chill from outside—only to be met by a warmth he hadn’t expected. Not the kind that chased cold away, but the kind that waited quietly, as if it had been lit for someone’s return.

The hearth was lit.

The fire crackled low in the grate, casting a gentle amber glow across the room. Not for warmth, Levi realized. Not really. It wasn’t cold enough. It felt like Eren had lit it for something else. Comfort, maybe. Or—Levi’s mind hesitated over the word—coziness. It sounded foreign in his head. Like something borrowed from someone else's life.

His eyes moved to the round table between the armchairs. A small setup: two cups, steam curling from them, and a plate with a few sweets—one of the ones Levi had relented to earlier in the village. The candlelight flickered softly over the surface, catching the edge of porcelain and the glint of sugar.

Eren looked up from where he was adjusting the placement of the cups. “Hey,” he said, quiet, like the moment didn’t need more than that.

Levi stepped further in, letting the door click shut behind him. He glanced at the hearth again. “You lit that?”

Eren shrugged, not defensive. “Thought it might feel better. The house was quiet.”

Levi didn’t answer right away. He moved toward the armchair, the one he always took, and sat down. The cushion gave under him with a familiar sigh. His gaze lingered on the plate.

“You saved that?” he asked, nodding toward the sweet.

Eren settled into the other chair, legs folding easily beneath him. “Thought it might taste better shared.”

Levi didn’t answer. He first reached for the cup. The warmth seeped into his fingers, grounding. Outside, the wind stirred faintly, but inside, the air held a kind of hush—gentle, pleasant, like something tended.

He took a piece of the almond bar next, bit into it. The sugar was sharp, unexpected—cutting through the mellow warmth of the tea like a sudden memory. The brittle cracked audibly between his teeth, shards of caramel and toasted almond splintering across his tongue. 

Levi had dismissed it earlier—too sweet, too ornamental—but now the roasted nuts grounded the sugar, gave it texture and weight. He chewed slowly, eyes on the flame, watching it shift and settle—like something alive, not content to stay still.

Eren’s gaze wandered. Not intentionally. Not at first. But Levi’s shirt hung looser than usual, collarbones catching the light, the edge of his chest visible in the flicker. Eren’s eyes jumped from skin to lips, then back again. He watched the way Levi’s throat shifted, the way his fingers curled around the cup.

Levi kept sipping his tea, at first unaware. But when no sounds followed from Eren’s side, he paused. Realization hit—he’d become the fixed focus. The thought made him almost squirm. He quashed it. Then said, dryly, “I can feel you staring.”

Eren didn’t smile. Not fully. “Tea and you in candlelight, and expect me not to look and flirt? With how beautiful you are right now, that's not an easy ask to follow.”

Levi blinked. The word— beautiful —struck like a match against damp stone. Brief, bright, and lingering in its own defiance. He didn’t flinch, but he felt the heat of it settle somewhere low and unwelcome. Not because it was wrong. But because it was unfamiliar.

The flame danced softly. Eren leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “Why?” he asked. “Is it so hard to believe it’s true?”

Levi didn’t answer. His skin felt warmer suddenly—his neck, his chest, the hollow beneath his collarbone. Not from the hearth. From being seen.

“You know I wouldn’t lie,” Eren continued, slower now, watching Levi’s profile. “Not about something like this.”

Outside, the stars had begun to scatter across the sky, but Levi barely registered them. The world beyond the walls felt distant—shrunk to the radius of candlelight and the space between their chairs.

“I see a sliver of your skin,” Eren said, “and it’s all I can look at. Just because it’s a part of you I didn’t get to discover for myself.”

He paused. Let the words settle.

“It makes me think about it though,” he added, softer still. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Levi’s jaw shifted, but he didn’t speak.

“I’m not asking to tease, Levi,” Eren said. “I’m asking to know where the line lies between us.”

Levi’s mind didn’t race. It stalled.

Beautiful. Line between us. Discomfort.

The words didn’t echo—they embedded. Lodged like splinters in soft wood, not painful, but impossible to ignore. He wasn’t used to being the subject of such direct attention. Not like this. Not with reverence.

He felt that heat again—not from the hearth, but from his own skin. His collar prickled, his ears too. A strange awareness bloomed across his chest, like his body had just remembered it could be looked at with want, not wariness.

Levi didn’t move at first. The question hung in the air—not heavy, but precise. Like a blade laid gently on skin, not to cut, but to test the edge.

It wasn’t the first time the question had existed between them. It had lingered in glances, in silences, in the way Eren’s hand sometimes brushed too close and didn’t pull away. But this was the first time it had been asked aloud. And Levi felt the difference.

It felt… well-placed. Like something that had waited for the right night, the right quiet, the right flicker of flame.

He shifted slightly in his seat, angling his body so he could see Eren more clearly. His eye adjusted, and the image sharpened: Eren leaning forward, the candlelight catching the curves of his face, the softness in his mouth, the steadiness in his gaze. Levi saw it now—not just the want, but the patience behind it. The way Eren held himself open, not demanding, just… waiting.

And Levi let himself look. Really look.

Eren had changed since he arrived. There was more color to him now, warmth. A kind of ease in his posture that hadn’t been there before. Levi felt something stir in his gut—a flutter, an emptiness made more obvious.

Eren noticed the shift. Didn’t speak. But Levi saw the way his eyes softened, the way his breath slowed. He knew what Levi was doing. What he was considering.

And Levi didn’t have an answer. Not a clear one.

Where did the line lie?

He knew it had moved. The words, the days, the teasing, the touches—they had shifted it. But he didn’t know what it was made of. Or what waited on the other side.

It didn’t feel like a line anymore. It felt more solid. Like a wall. One he’d built carefully, brick by brick, over years of survival and silence. And now, even with the will to step over it—or through it—he couldn’t yet imagine what came next.

But he could speak to the shift. Build a door.

“I don’t know where the line is,” Levi said, voice deep. “But I know it’s not where it used to be.”

Eren’s breath caught—tended to do that around Levi it seemed—not in shock, but in something quieter. Something like awe.

He hadn’t expected an answer. Not like that. Not so direct. Not so bare.

Levi’s voice felt like a tremor beneath the floorboards. A crack in something long sealed.

The man himself looked… braced. Like someone standing at the edge of something and choosing not to step back.

“You said that,” Eren murmured, almost to himself. “You actually said that.”

Levi didn’t deny nor confirm. It was already out in the open.

Eren leaned in slightly, not enough to close the space, but enough to feel it. “I didn’t think you would,” he said. “Not tonight. Not like that.”

The candle burnt between them, casting light across Levi’s figure. Eren’s eyes traced the lines, not with hunger, but with veneration. 

“I know it’s not easy,” he said. “But I’m glad you did. Thankful.”

“It’s nothing to be thankful for. Not doing you a favour. You made it… easier.”

Eren’s lips parted, but no words came at first. He looked at Levi—not just at his face, but at the way his shoulders sat, the way his hand rested now on the arm of the chair instead of the cup. Less guarded. Not open, not yet. But less locked.

“I wanted to,” Eren said finally. “Make it easier, I mean. Not by pushing. Just by being here. By staying.”

Levi didn’t look away. His eye held steady, and Eren felt the significance of it. Felt noticed in a way that made his chest tighten.

“I didn’t know if you’d ever say anything,” Eren continued. “But I kept hoping. For a moment like this.”

Light glimmered across the curve of Levi’s throat, the edge of his collarbone. Eren’s gaze flicked there again, but slower this time. More deliberate.

“I don’t know where the line is either,” he said. “But maybe we don’t have to know. Not yet.”

Levi’s brow shifted, just slightly.

Eren leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, voice laden with sincerity. “Maybe we just find out. See how far the door opens. How wide it can go.”

The words weren’t rushed. They weren’t even bold. But they carried meaning. A kind of invitation. A kind of promise.

Levi didn’t answer right away. But the silence didn’t feel like retreat.

It felt like consideration.

And Levi did.  

Thankful? The word sat wrong. Gratitude implied generosity. A level of selflessness. He had offered freely. Yes. But it had cost him.

He hadn’t spoken to ease Eren’s burden. He’d spoken because the silence had started to rot. Because Eren had stayed, and the balance had shifted.

And now— this. Eren’s voice, steady. Suggesting they didn’t need to know the line to toe it. That they could find it together.

Levi didn’t trust ease. Didn’t trust doors that opened without resistance. But he trusted Eren’s eyes—the devotion.

“You think it’s simple,” Levi said, voice low. “Just open the door and see what’s behind it.”

He looked at Eren, gaze unwavering. “It’s not simple. Doesn’t feel safe.”

A pause. Then, softer, “But maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

He shifted, not away—but forward. Just slightly. Enough to be felt.

“If you’re asking to find out,” Levi said, “then don’t expect me to lead. I don’t know the way. But I’m willing to walk it. To try.”

Something quaked and then steadied in Eren at Levi’s words. He couldn’t quite name it, but it was there—in the quiver of his pupils and the angle of his torso.

He didn’t move. Not at first. There was a lull in the conversation, not awkward, but taut. Eren didn’t fill it with talk. He just watched Levi, gaze steady, patient. There was no demand in it, no expectation. Debate. Not with Levi. With himself.

Levi had been aware of Eren’s proximity in a way that felt almost physical, like gravity. The room was quiet but not still. Something was shifting once more.

“You’re not asking,” Levi said, voice low. Not accusing—just observing.

Eren’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You’d say no.”

Levi huffed, a sound that could have been amusement or exasperation. “Probably.”

But he didn’t move away.

Eren took that as permission—or maybe just possibility. He leaned in further, slow enough that Levi could have stopped him. He didn’t. His fingers brushed Levi’s wrist, light as a dare.

Levi’s breath caught this time—not audibly, but Eren saw it in the way his shoulders stilled. The touch was barely there, but it wasn’t nothing. Calculated and careful.

Starting with something known.

Eren didn’t press. He just let his fingers linger. Then teased, feather-light against Levi’s wrist. The air between them shifted again, denser now, like something waiting to happen.

Levi glanced down at the contact, then back up. His eyes were unreadable, but not closed off. There was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe. Or caution.

Eren leaned in, voice rich with promise, the words almost a murmur. “You never said I couldn’t touch.”

Levi’s gaze sharpened. A flare of doubt. “I didn’t say you could.”

It wasn’t a rebuke. It wasn’t permission either. It was a line drawn in sand, not stone.

Levi’s eyes drifted—not away, but inward. Eren saw it: the calculation, the weighing of risk against want. The line between them wasn’t just about touch. It was about trust. About what Levi was willing to let in.

Eren’s fingers didn’t move. “Then say it now. I’ll stop.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. Not empty. Full of possibility.

Levi exhaled, slow. Controlled. “You will.”

It wasn’t a challenge. It wasn’t a test. It was a truth.

Eren’s gaze didn’t waver. “Always.”

Levi looked down at the contact again. His wrist beneath Eren’s fingers. The warmth there. The steadiness. 

“I didn’t say you could,” he repeated, quieter now. But the words didn’t carry resistance.

Eren didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited.

Levi’s voice came again, low and deliberate. “But I’m not saying stop either.”

The candle flickered between them, casting light across the space that was no longer quite a distance.

Eren’s fingers curled slightly, not gripping—just anchoring. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Then I won’t.”

When Eren stood, that wasn’t what Levi had expected.

His fingers remained light but sure, a tether between them—not a bind. He moved with intention, each step around the small round table measured and quiet. The candle’s flame wavered as he passed, casting shadows that curled like smoke across Levi’s lap, fleeting and intimate.

When he came to stand before Levi, he didn’t tower. He simply existed there—tall, steady, the angle of his body leaning just enough to keep their connection intact. He didn’t speak. Didn’t rush. His gaze held no urgency, only a quiet gravity, as if he were listening to something Levi hadn’t said aloud.

Then, slowly, Eren lowered himself.

A crouch, deliberate and unhurried, folding into Levi’s space without intrusion. One hand still held Levi’s wrist, the other braced lightly beside Levi’s boot, grounding him. The shift brought their eyes nearly level, and something about that—about Eren choosing to meet him there, not above but equal—made Levi’s chest tighten. Felt the weight of being met so fully.

Only then did Eren move again.

His grip shifted, gentle and sure. He turned Levi’s hand palm-up where it rested on the armrest, and his thumb began to trace the inside of Levi’s wrist, like he was reading something written beneath the skin.

Levi felt it first in the pulse beneath his skin—how it betrayed him, steady one moment, then quickening under Eren’s touch. A quiet crescendo, rising with each lingering stroke of Eren’s thumb.

Eren’s fingers drifted lower, not with intent to possess, but to understand. They traced the center of Levi’s palm, drawing a slow circle, featherlight at first, then deepening with pressure—not demanding, just present. A silent promise etched into flesh.

Then, without ceremony, Eren’s hand shifted again. Their fingers met—what could of them. Levi’s right hand, incomplete in form but never in meaning. Eren didn’t falter. His touch was unwavering, reverent. He let the pads of his fingers brush over the places where Levi’s ended, and held them anyway.

Levi’s breath caught—not loud, not sharp, but shallow. His body remained still, yet something inside him folded inward, like a page turned gently in a book long left unopened.

No one had touched him like this. Not with care. Such level of attention. 

Eren must have known. Not from Levi’s breath, not from the way his fingers trembled—just something in the silence between them. Because he asked.

Not cruelly. Not to boast. Just to check.

“How does it feel?”

The words were soft, almost hesitant, as if he feared they might press too hard against something fragile. But they didn’t. They landed like a whisper, like the brush of his thumb over Levi’s pulse—tender, real.

The question wasn’t one he could meet with instinct. It asked for something deeper—something he wasn’t used to naming. Not aloud. Not even to himself.

How does it feel?

It felt like being seen in a way that didn’t impose anything. Like being touched not for function, not for pain, not for proof of survival—but for presence. For connection.

It felt like Eren had found something Levi hadn’t known was still there. A place untouched. A place he’d guarded so long it had gone dormant.

And now it roused.

The warmth of Eren’s fingers, the way they lingered over what was missing and didn’t flinch—it wasn’t pity. It wasn’t curiosity. It was care. And Levi didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

But he wanted to try.

When he finally responded, his voice was quieter than usual—less clipped, more careful.

“…If you mean the hand,” he began, thumb brushing faintly against Eren’s knuckles, “it’s… tolerable. I’ve lived with worse.”

A pause. Then, softer, “But if you meant this—” his gaze lifted, meeting Eren’s with something unspoken, “—the closeness… I don’t know.”

He hesitated, the words coming like chess pieces he wasn’t sure how to place.

“It’s unfamiliar. Not bad. Just… something I don’t have a name for yet.”

Another breath, slower this time.

“I’m not used to being touched like this. Not without a reason. Not without something being asked of me.”

He looked down again, voice nearly lost to the quiet.

“But I think I want to learn what it means.”

Eren’s expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes deepened—quiet, steady.

He nodded once, slow.

“…Whatever it is,” he said, voice low, “you won’t have to name it alone.”

His thumb moved gently against Levi’s hand, not to coax, just to stay present.

“I’m here.”

No promises. No declarations. Just a truth, offered plainly.

Levi’s fingers tightened around Eren’s hand—not much, just enough to say I’m still here too . His eyes lifted, uncertain, and he opened his mouth as if to speak.

“Eren…”

But the rest didn’t come. Not yet. It hovered in the space between them, half-formed, half-held back.

Eren leaned in slightly, not closing the distance, just listening with his whole body.

Levi’s gaze flickered, not away—but inward. Searching.

There was want in it. Not demand. Not certainty. But want.

Eren’s voice was quiet, steady.

“May I kiss you now?”

Levi’s breath teetered—not sharply, but like something delicate had brushed against him from the inside.

His grip on Eren’s hand contracted just slightly. A signal. 

He looked at Eren, gaze steady but unreadable for a beat too long. Then he nodded—barely. A movement so small it could’ve been missed, but it wasn’t.

“…Yes,” he said, voice a whisper. “You may.”

It wasn’t surrender. It was choice.

Eren let Levi’s words settle, let the silence stretch just long enough to be sure it was real. That it wasn’t hesitation mistaken for permission.

Then, slowly, he leaned in.

Their foreheads touched first—barely. A breath shared. A pause.

Levi didn’t flinch.

Eren’s hand rose, brushing Levi’s cheek with the back of his fingers, grounding the moment in something affectionate.

And then, with the kind of care reserved for things long kept behind glass, he kissed him.

Not rushed or bold, but measured. Like a door being opened for the first time in years.

Eren’s lips had brushed Levi’s with a kind of deference, as if he were afraid the moment might shatter if he pressed too hard. Levi felt it before he understood it—heat blooming low in his chest, breath catching, the faint tremor in his fingers where they still rested against Eren’s wrist.

His body had been slow to respond, not from reluctance but from disbelief. The world hadn’t tilted or spun. It had quieted. The porch, the wind, the distant creak of wood—all of it had faded beneath the soft press of Eren’s mouth. Levi’s eyes had fluttered shut, not because he was swept away, but because he needed to feel without distraction.

He had noticed everything.

The way Eren’s thumb grazed the inside of his wrist, grounding him. The scent of sun-warmed cotton and soil clinging to Eren’s skin. The tentative parting of lips, the shared breath, the way Levi’s own mouth—unused to softness—had learned the shape of this new language.

It hadn’t been dramatic. Just a shift. A decision. His hand had lifted, fingers brushing Eren’s jaw, tracing the line where stubble met skin. He had kissed back—not perfectly, not confidently—but with a kind of aching sincerity. His heart had stuttered, not from fear, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of joy.

He had thought, absurdly, of all the years that had led here. The silences. The glances. The quiet tending of wounds. And now this—Eren’s lips, warm and patient, asking nothing but offering everything.

Levi hadn’t known what would come next. But in that moment, he had let himself crave.

He had let himself lean in—and Eren had taken it like a gift.

The kiss lingered, slow and searching. Levi’s mouth moved with growing certainty, still cautious, but no longer hesitant. He didn’t know what he was doing, not really, but he knew what he wanted: to stay here, to feel this, to let it last. His fingers had curled more firmly along Eren’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone, grounding them both.

Eren responded with a quiet sound—barely a breath, but it reached Levi’s ears like a spark. Something in it made Levi’s chest tighten, and before he could think, his lips parted just slightly more, inviting. Eren’s hand, still resting lightly at Levi’s side, shifted. Not urgently. Just closer. His fingers slid along Levi’s waist, anchoring, asking.

And Levi gave.

He tilted his head, deepened the kiss—not dramatically, but with a kind of aching intent. Eren met him there, lips warmer now, more sure. The rhythm shifted, slow to something deeper, more consuming. Levi felt the change in Eren—not just the pressure, but the way his body leaned in, the way his breath hitched when Levi’s hand slipped behind his neck.

It was Eren who lost himself first.

In the way his grip tightened, in the way his mouth grew more insistent, chasing Levi’s responses like he’d been starved. And maybe he had. Maybe this was the moment Eren had imagined for years, rehearsed in silence, waited for with a patience Levi hadn’t known how to name.

Levi didn’t pull away.

He catalogued everything—the heat of Eren’s skin, the way their noses brushed, the way his own body betrayed him with a shiver when Eren’s tongue flicked, tentative but wanting. He let it happen. Let himself be kissed. Let himself kiss back.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Levi made a sound—quiet, involuntary, a breath caught between surprise and surrender.

Eren stilled for half a second, then pressed closer, lips parting with something that bordered on desperation. Not to take, but to feel. To be felt.

Levi didn’t stop him.

He didn’t want to.

Eren noted it in the way Levi’s neck strained forward, the subtle tension in his grip behind Eren’s nape—not demanding, but coaxing. A quiet pull. Yet Levi’s position in the armchair made closeness awkward, his body angled low and tight. So Eren shifted, instinctively rising from his crouch, one hand still cradling Levi’s jaw as he eased him back into the curve of the chair.

Eren’s knee found balance between Levi’s thighs, not forceful—fixed. The kiss deepened, slow and certain, breath mingling in the hush between them. Eren chased the sound Levi had made earlier, the one that had cracked something open inside him, and for a moment, he forgot restraint.

Then he felt it.

His leg brushed too close—inner thigh, too intimate. Levi’s body tensed beneath him, a sharp inhale breaking the rhythm. His head turned abruptly, lips slipping from Eren’s to his cheek.

“Eren,” Levi said again—but this time, his voice had changed. No longer curious. Overwhelmed.

Eren stilled.

His breath left him in a quiet huff, not frustrated, just grounding. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let his nose graze Levi’s cheek, a soft touch, a tender farewell to the closeness they’d shared just moments before.

Then, voice low, rasped from his ardor: “Sorry. Got carried away. You okay?”, he asked, eyes searching.

Levi blinked, eyes still half-lidded, the warmth of Eren’s breath lingering on his skin. He swallowed, unsure if the tightness in his chest and lower stomach was discomfort or something else entirely.

“I—” His voice faltered. He hated that. Hated how it made him feel exposed. “I didn’t expect that.”

Not the kiss. Not the way his body had responded. Not the way it had felt like falling—fast and without warning.

He hadn’t meant to turn away. It had just happened. A reflex. Like pulling back from something too hot, too sudden. But it wasn’t fear. Not exactly.

It was the realization that he wanted it. That he wanted more. And that wanting—after everything—felt dangerous. Too quick. Too intense.

“I’m okay,” he said finally, quieter. “Just… surprised.”

Eren didn’t move, didn’t press. Just stayed close, his presence steady, grounding. Levi could feel the weight of him, the heat, the quiet patience.

Neither of them rushed to fill the silence.

Eren exhaled slowly, his hand still resting lightly at Levi’s jaw, thumb brushing once across the skin there—barely a touch. His voice came low, rough-edged but gentle.

“Thanks for telling me.”

He leaned in, not to kiss, but to rest his forehead briefly against Levi’s temple. A gesture of closeness without demand. A promise of stillness.

“I’ll slow down,” he murmured. “We’ve got time.”

Levi closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Letting the words settle. Letting himself believe them.

And Eren stayed like that, quiet and unmoving, until Levi’s breathing evened out again.

The bedroom had settled into its usual hush, accentuating the way Levi’s mind fell into disquiet. He had returned without ceremony, the door closing behind him with a soft click that felt louder than it should. The mattress gave under his weight, familiar and indifferent. The scent of old wood and linen greeted him like a habit.

The blanket was too warm at the chest and not warm enough at the feet. Levi shifted once, then again, the fabric catching against the rough edge of the mattress where the seam had started to fray. He’d meant to fix it weeks ago. He hadn’t.

The lamp had been extinguished, but the moon was doing its best to intrude—casting a pale line across the floorboards, slicing the room in two. Levi lay on his side, eyes open, watching that line. It didn’t move. Neither did he.

His mouth still tasted of Eren. Not sweet, not sharp—just something that lingered. Like the memory of a word spoken too softly to hear but too loudly to forget.

He hadn’t planned it. Hadn't let himself think of such things at all, and if they did creep in, he chased them away. In that moment, though, it felt right. Eren there, in his space—too close, yet welcome. It didn’t matter he wasn’t supposed to have that anymore.

It didn’t matter who leaned in first. The space between them had collapsed. And now it was back again, rebuilt in silence and distance.

Eren was in the main room. On the floor. A few feet away, and yet Levi could feel the absence like a draft under the door.

Why was he still there?

They’d kissed. That was supposed to mean something. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just a moment, like all the others—shared tea, shared pain, shared silence. Maybe Eren didn’t expect anything more. Maybe Levi didn’t either.

But he was thinking about it now.

About the floor. About the cold. About the way Eren curled into himself when he slept, like he was trying to disappear. About the way Levi had left the door ajar—not literally, but emotionally. A gesture half-made. A boundary half-erased.

Was sharing a bed more intimate than a kiss? Or less?

He’d shared tents before. Expeditions. Missions. Bodies pressed together for warmth, for survival. It had never meant anything. It had never felt like this.

Levi turned onto his back, the mattress creaking beneath him. His body was sore, but not in pain. Just tired. Just used. The adrenaline had drained, leaving behind a hum in his limbs that refused to quiet.

He thought of Eren, on the other side of the wall. Awake? Asleep? Wondering?

Would their days change now? Would Eren expect them to?

Levi didn’t know. He didn’t know what he wanted. But he knew the floor was cold. And the bed was wide enough. And the moonlight was drawing lines that didn’t need to be there.

He closed his eyes.

If it was just sleep, then why did it feel like a question?

The fire had long since burned down, but the hearth still held its breath—warmth lingering in the stones, a low crackle now and then as a log settled into ash. Eren lay on his side, blanket discarded to the side, eyes open to the dark.

He hadn’t moved much since Levi left the room. Just watched the shadows shift across the ceiling, listened to the quiet groan of the house settling into sleep. His body felt too full—of heat, of memory, of something he didn’t want to name too quickly.

They had kissed.

He’d imagined it for years. Replayed it in dreams, in half-thoughts, in the silence between words. But nothing had prepared him for the real thing. For Levi’s mouth—warm, hesitant, wanting. For the way Levi had leaned in, not with command, but with choice.

Eren could still feel it. The press of Levi’s lips. The way his hand had curled behind Eren’s neck. The sound Levi had made—quiet, involuntary, like something had slipped past his guard. Eren had chased that sound with everything in him.

And Levi hadn’t pulled away.

That was what undid him now. Not the kiss itself, but the permission. The welcome.

He turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling beams. What had changed? What had shifted between them in those few days that made this possible? Had Levi changed? Had Eren done something right, finally?

Or was it just the world—quieter now, less cruel. No Corps. No war. No eyes watching, judging, forbidding. Just two men in a house at the edge of nowhere.

Still, he wondered.

Was it temporary?

It hadn’t felt like it. Not with the way Levi had kissed him back. Not with the way their hands had stayed joined, even after. But what if Levi woke up tomorrow and decided it was too much? That Eren was too much—too difficult, too broken, too monstrous?

Eren had seen Levi’s eyes. Had felt his resolve. Not to trust that would be to disrespect it. And that was the last thing he wanted.

He didn’t expect everything to change overnight. One kiss didn’t mean more kisses. Or anything else. He wanted them—wanted Levi with every part of himself that could feel—but it wasn’t only that.

Even if it had been a one-time gift, he’d cherish it. He’d take whatever Levi was willing to give. Any time. Any closeness. Any version of a life Levi could share.

And if he had dreams—of more, of a future, of waking up beside Levi instead of across a wall—he’d allow himself that. Not with expectation. But with hope.

Because Levi had wanted him. At least for that moment.

And Eren had promised: he’d help Levi walk that road, however long it lasted. Even if it stopped early. Even if it vanished.

He turned toward the hearth, watching the last ember pulse once, then fade.

He’d stay. As long as Levi let him.

Chapter Text

The kettle had just begun to hum, steam curling from its spout in slow spirals. Levi stood by the stove, watching the oats bubble in the pot—thick, steady, unremarkable. He stirred once, then left the spoon resting against the rim.

The house was quiet, save for the soft sounds of morning: the creak of wood, the distant call of a bird, the faint splash of water from the bathroom.

He walked past the hearth, past the low pile of folded blankets and the neatly arranged pillow Eren had used the night before. It was too tidy. Too deliberate. Like Eren had made peace with the floor.

Levi stopped.

He looked at it for a long moment, arms crossed, jaw set. The fire had gone out sometime in the night, leaving only a faint warmth in the stones. The blanket still held the shape of a body.

He sighed—not in frustration, not in relief. More like admittance.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click. Eren stepped out, hair damp, face flushed from the heat. He looked more awake than usual. More full. Levi didn’t know if it was happiness, but it was something close.

Levi nodded toward the bedding with his chin.

“I think you’ve suffered enough,” he said, voice dry. “Go put those away in the closet.”

Eren blinked, caught off guard.

Levi added, already turning back toward the kitchen, “Keep one blanket though. I’m only sharing the mattress.”

Eren stood still for a moment, blinking at Levi’s words. He hadn’t expected that turn—not so soon, not so plainly. But he didn’t question it. He knew better than to test the edges of Levi’s generosity.

A grin tugged at his mouth, unbidden and bright. He bent down, gathered the bedding, and carried it to Levi’s bedroom.

The room was quiet, austere. The bed sat against the far wall, tucked in with military precision—corners sharp, sheets smooth, the blanket folded just so. A single pillow, firm and centered. The nightstand held only a small lamp and a book, its spine worn. No clutter. No softness, save for the faint scent of soap and cedar.

Eren placed the folded blankets in the closet, keeping one as instructed. Then he turned back to the bed.

He hadn’t imagined this the night before. Hadn’t let himself. And now here he was, standing in Levi’s room, about to share the space where Levi slept.

His eyes drifted to the bed again. One side was slightly more indented, the sheets faintly creased. A subtle sign. Levi’s side.

There was no ceremony to it. No romance. Just the quiet fact of proximity. He imagined it—two bodies, back to back, breath syncing in the dark. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just warmth. Just presence.

He let himself linger in the thought.

Then Levi’s voice cut through the doorway.

“If you’re done inspecting the mattress for lice, breakfast’s ready. Oats’ll turn to brick if you keep standing there like a ghost.”

Eren startled, turning quickly.

Levi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised.

“It’s just a bed,” he said. “Not a shrine.”

Eren nodded, sheepish, and followed him out.

Levi didn’t say anything more after breakfast. He moved with quiet purpose, setting the kettle back on the stove, checking the firebox, then disappearing down the hall.

Eren followed a few minutes later, carrying the last of the dishes. He found Levi in the bedroom, standing beside the bed, fingers hooked under the edge of the blanket.

“I’m washing the covers,” Levi said, without looking up. “Help me strip it.”

Eren stepped in, nodding. The sheets came away in practiced motions—corners untucked, folds shaken out. Levi moved methodically, his hands sure, his body slower than it used to be but still precise.

The mattress underneath was firm, clean. No scent lingered too strongly, but Levi’s presence was there—in the way the pillow was shaped, the faint crease where he slept.

Eren didn’t comment. But he noticed.

Fresh linens were folded on the chair nearby. Levi reached for them, paused.

“It’s better this way,” he said, almost to himself. “Clean start.”

Eren nodded again, understanding more than Levi probably wanted him to.

They fitted the new sheets together, smoothing fabric over corners, tucking in edges. Eren’s fingers brushed Levi’s once, briefly. Neither of them spoke.

When the bed was made, Levi stepped back, surveying it like a finished task. Then he turned toward the laundry tubs.

“Let’s get the rest done. Towels, cloths, everything.”

The water had already been heating in the copper boiler, steam rising in lazy curls. Levi stirred the pot once, then poured the hot water into the first tub. The soap had been grated earlier—sharp-scented and pale—and Eren dropped it in, watching it dissolve.

They worked in rhythm.

Levi scrubbed the smaller cloths on the washboard, his movements efficient but careful. Eren handled the heavier towels, agitating them with a wooden paddle. The heat clung to their skin, dampening their shirts, making the room feel closer.

“You always do this alone?” Eren asked, wringing out a towel.

Levi nodded. “Mostly.”

“It’s a lot.”

Levi shrugged. “It gets done.”

Eren twisted a sheet with him, the fabric heavy and dripping. Levi’s grip was firm, but Eren could see the strain in his wrists.

“You should’ve asked for help sooner.”

“I didn’t think you’d fold a towel properly, let alone wring one.”

Eren scoffed. “Well, that’s just not fair. I demand justice. You know how I practiced—just so I’d be the one you didn’t ask to redo the washing. You even praised me once.”

Levi raised an eyebrow. “Sure. If a ‘not bad’ counts as praise.”

“From you, it did.”

Levi didn’t smile, but his eyes flicked toward Eren with something dry and amused.

They rinsed in clean water, added bluing to the final tub. Eren, eager to help, poured a generous amount in—too generous.

Levi stared at the deepening blue hue, then at Eren.

“You want the sheets to blind us in our sleep?” he asked flatly.”

Eren blinked at the tub, then grinned sheepishly. “It’s brighter now?”

“If they shine any brighter, we’ll need to sleep with our eyes shut twice. I’d rather keep the one eye working, if possible.”

“I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

The rest went without further mishaps.

Eren carried the wet linens outside, hanging them on the line. Levi followed, slower, adjusting the corners, checking the spacing. 

The wind picked up, catching the sheets. They billowed once, then settled. The scent of soap lingered in the air.

Levi watched them for a moment, arms crossed.

“It’s easier with you,” he said, almost absently.

Eren turned, surprised. “What is?”

Levi didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the line, the sun, the quiet stretch of morning.

“Everything.”

The sun had dipped low, casting long amber streaks across the wooden floorboards. Eren stepped inside, arms wrapped around the basket of dry linens, the scent of sun-warmed soap trailing behind him. He brought it to Levi’s room without being asked.

Levi was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, methodically folding a sheet with the kind of precision that made it look like origami. Eren didn’t speak. He just stayed—watching. He hadn’t lingered in Levi’s room before unless summoned for something specific. But now, with the bed soon to be shared, the space felt different. Less Levi’s alone. More theirs.

Levi didn’t comment on Eren’s presence. He simply gestured toward the larger pieces.

“Help me with these. They’re too wide to fold cleanly solo.”

Eren stepped in, taking one end of a towel. They worked in quiet rhythm, the occasional brush of fingers unnoticed or unmentioned. When they were done, Levi handed Eren the stack meant for the bathroom.

“Put these away. Top shelf.”

Eren nodded and left. Levi remained, folding the last pillowcase, then paused—eyes drifting to the bed. The sheets were crisp, the corners tucked sharp. But something in his gaze softened, like he was bracing for something less tangible than sleep.

Eren returned, slower this time, and lingered in the doorway. Levi didn’t look up, but Eren saw the way his eyes had settled on the bed. He stepped in, voice light.

“I enjoyed today.”

Levi’s gaze flicked toward him, then back to the linens. “What, laboring over laundry?” His tone was dry, but not dismissive.

“That’s a first,” Levi added.

Eren smiled. “It brings you peace.”

Levi didn’t answer. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just full.

Eren sat on the edge of the bed, not too close. “Difficult or simple, I like spending time with you. Whether we talk or stay in silence, it feels like time well spent.”

Levi’s hands stilled. He looked at Eren, not guarded, but searching.

“I... don’t know how you want me to respond to those things. When you say them.”

“I’m not saying it to get a response,” Eren said gently. “I’m saying it because that’s what I feel. And I want you to know. That’s enough.”

Levi’s brow furrowed slightly. Not in irritation—more like thought.

“And that doesn’t feel unfair to you?”

Eren considered that. “It’s not about fairness. I don’t think...” He paused, fingers curling slightly against the mattress. “I mean, I don’t have a blueprint for this. But maybe it’s about being there for each other however feels right for us both. It won’t always be the same. We’re two different people. But if what I do feels right to you—and the other way around—and we both want it, isn’t that what should matter?”

Levi looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly, “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not,” Eren admitted. “But it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”

Levi’s gaze dropped to the folded sheets. “I’ll try not to make it harder than it is.”

Eren smiled, soft and sure. “That sounds good.”

The bathroom was quiet, steam still clinging faintly to the mirror. Levi stood at the basin, sleeves rolled up, water cooling against his skin as he washed. The cloth moved slowly over his face, neck, arms—methodical, practiced. He didn’t rush.

He hadn’t expected to reflect as much as he did. Not just on Eren’s words, but on his own response. On the fact that he’d initiated something—set a boundary, yes, but also opened a door. Told Eren what was acceptable, what wasn’t. Asked, in his own way, to learn the same.

His nightclothes clung closer than usual. Not damp, just... present. He noticed the way the fabric pulled slightly at his shoulder, the way it settled against his ribs. His awareness of his own body had sharpened lately—not in discomfort, but in attention. He didn’t know what to make of that.

He dried his hands, folded the towel, and stepped into the hallway.

Eren was in the main room, curled in the armchair, the book Levi had seen him start days ago now open near its final chapters. Levi noted the progress, then said simply, “Bathroom’s free.”

Eren looked up, nodded.

“I’m going to bed,” Levi added. A pause. “I’ll leave the door open.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

He entered the bedroom, the scent of fresh linen still faint in the air. He moved with quiet purpose, laying out his clothes for the next day on the chair behind his desk—shirt, trousers, socks, folded with precision. Routine.

Then he turned to the bed.

He hesitated.

His usual side was closest to the door. He’d always slept there—habit, practicality. But now he wondered: would Eren walk around the bed to the other side? Surely he wouldn’t crawl over the middle. That would be absurd.

Levi caught himself. The thought was ridiculous. He felt it in his shoulders—drawn tighter than they’d been all day.

“It’s just a bed,” he muttered. “Not a shrine.”

He was starting to be ridiculous in his own eyes.

Enough.

He pulled back the covers, settled on his usual side, and reached for the book on his nightstand—the newer one he’d picked up at the bookstore. The spine cracked softly as he opened it, the pages cool beneath his fingers.

He read.

Or tried to.

But his ears were tuned to the sound of footsteps. To the creak of the floorboards. To the space between.

Levi heard the water stop. The soft click of the bathroom door. Then the muted steps—bare feet against wood—crossing the short stretch between rooms.

Eren stood in the doorway, hair damp, shirt loose at the collar. He smiled, but Levi saw the tension behind it. Good. He wasn’t the only one.

Two grown men, stressing over sharing a bed.

It would become a habit, Levi told himself. Like anything else between them had.

Eren’s eyes flicked to the book in Levi’s hands. “You want to read some more? Should I leave the light on or put it out so you don’t have to get up?”

“I’m done for now. Off is fine. Just don’t kill yourself on the way to your side.”

“I’m flattered you care.”

“I don’t want a corpse with a bleeding head to take care of right before bed. Sounds exhausting.”

Eren laughed softly. “You always had a way with words. Lights off then and no corpses. Noted.”

He reached for the gas lamp, turned it down. The room dimmed, shadows stretching long across the walls. Eren walked around the bed, as Levi had expected. No crawling over the middle. Thank god.

Levi’s side was closest to the door. That put Eren on his right—his blind side. He wouldn’t see much unless he turned his head. So he listened.

The sound of bare legs brushing the floor. The dip of the mattress. The rustle of fabric. Eren pulling the blanket over himself. Levi knew he hadn’t laid down yet. He could feel it.

Levi closed the book, returned it to the nightstand. His fingers lingered on the cover.

Then Eren spoke.

“Anything you’d like me to keep in mind? Aside from minding my own blanket?”

Levi turned his head, eye adjusting to the dark. Eren sat against the headboard, legs stretched out, arms loose at his sides. His face was half-shadowed, but Levi saw the openness there. The quiet ask.

“Something I should?” Levi asked, uncertain.

Eren shrugged lightly. “Just checking. I don’t think I snore, if that’s any consolation. But if I wake you up with nightmares, I’m sorry. I don’t lash out or anything, but I could probably squirm or say something in my sleep. At least that’s what others told me in the barracks. Not sure if it’s still the same. It’s not too bad.”

Levi took that in. A beat passed.

“Well, same then. If we wake each other, that’s that. Turn around and go back to sleep.”

Eren nodded, a shadow of understanding passing over his face. “Goodnight then, Levi.”

“Night.”

Eren was the first to break eye contact, shifting down, pulling the blanket higher, turning to face the window—his back to Levi. A gesture of space. Of care.

Levi watched the silhouette. The curve of a shoulder. The dip of a waist. Long legs hidden beneath the blanket. It was already warmer in the room. Just a bit. Enough to notice.

He turned to his side, facing the door. Their backs to each other.

Sleep didn’t come.

His mind wandered—useless thoughts, half-formed and persistent. He chased them away, but they returned. He squirmed, turned to his back, pulled the blanket lower. Too warm. Too aware.

Eren’s breathing was rhythmic. Steady. Lucky bastard.

Levi felt every inch of his skin. Conscious of the mattress dipping under Eren’s weight. Conscious of not straying too far to the middle.

He ran a hand over his face, frustrated.

Why was this making him restless?

They’d been closer. They’d kissed. They’d touched. This was just sleep.

But it was his home. His bed. No one else to mind. No interruptions. No Corps. No war. Just Eren. Just Levi. And the quiet possibility of something more.

He sighed—barely audible.

Eren spoke.

“Can’t sleep? Am I making it difficult?”

Levi didn’t flinch, but his gut clenched.

“No. I’m making it difficult, it seems. I’ll fall asleep eventually.”

“You want me to leave?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Any way I can help then?”

“That’s supposed not to be stupid?”

“What’s making it difficult then?”

“Had that been obvious, I’d be thirty minutes into a dream about sweeping cobwebs. I don’t... have people in my bed. Something to get used to, probably.”

“Having people in your bed?”

“Sure, someone else every night just for shits and giggles.” He deadpanned. “You, obviously. It’s you I need to get used to.”

“I thought you already did.”

“Well, surprise for us both then. I could do more getting used to, apparently.”

Eren shifted. Levi felt it first—muscle tensing, the mattress responding.

“Want me to help with that?”

Levi’s mind halted. Then ran in every direction.

“Help how, exactly? Should I deck you over the head just in case you mean funny business?”

“Nope. No funny business. But if you’re so aware of me—same here—maybe being completely away makes it worse. Just in case you thought what if I move around in my sleep and encroach on your space. And maybe if I was already a bit in your space, there’d be no need to worry about that?”

Levi blinked. “So what, you want to cuddle or something? So that I don’t think what if it happens by accident?”

“Something like that? What, not a fan of cuddling?”

“I don’t cuddle, brat.”

“You didn’t share a bed either and here you are.”

“That’s cheeky and I still have enough strength to put you on your ass, to be clear.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. If you’d rather not, that’s fine. I just thought I’d offer, seeing as you were tossing and turning. If it feels awkward, we can always stop. Or I could just hold your hand?”

Levi stared at the ceiling. Thoughts ran wild.

Fuck it.

He was past caring at this stage. Past censoring whatever spewed out of his mouth when the night made talking easier.

“Fine. Just... How the fuck do you even cuddle?”

Silence.

Then Eren’s voice, soft. “Let me show you then. Can’t really describe it in words. I’ll move now, okay?”

Levi grunted. A stiff confirmation.

Eren shifted, moved closer. Scarce centimeters between them. He reached out, slid his arm under Levi’s upper one, resting it behind his back. Gave him time to process.

Levi didn’t move away.

Eren pulled him in gently, Levi’s face settling near his collarbone, their chests brushing.

“Something like that. To be honest, though—for sleeping, maybe better the other way. Chest to back. Less constricting. Wanna try that instead?”

Levi catalogued the position. Too warm. Face too close. Smelling Eren that deeply wasn’t helping.

But he didn’t want to run.

It felt... safe.

“Yeah. That... might be better.”

He turned to his side, not pulling away, just shifting.

Eren moved again, closing in. His chest met Levi’s back. One arm slid under Levi’s, resting loosely. One knee behind Levi’s, not pressing.

Levi tested the position. He could breathe. He could move. Eren wasn’t constricting him—just holding him.

It felt like a human blanket. Warm. Firm in places. Soft in others.

Strangely... pleasant.

His shape molding into Eren’s.

Levi blinked into the dark. 

The tension in his shoulders hadn’t vanished, but it had softened. Like that door left ajar.

Eren’s warmth behind him. Steady. Not pressing.

Levi inhaled.

Soap. Smoke. Eren.

Familiar. Too familiar.

He didn’t flinch.

He tuned into the rhythm of Eren’s breathing. The slow rise and fall of a chest against his back. He’d felt it before—briefly, in moments charged or fleeting. But never like this. Never for long.

Slow. Measured.

Levi’s back moved with it. Subtle. Syncing.

Not danger.

Not alertness.

Just rest.

His thoughts dulled. Not gone. Just distant. Like rain on a roof he wasn’t beneath.

Signs of life. Not birds. Not wind.

Human.

Eren.

Alive.

Here.

Levi closed his eyes.

Sleep came.

Warm.

Still.

No edge to the air. No weight pressing down.

Levi’s breath came slow. His limbs didn’t tense. His mind didn’t race.

Just the quiet hum of morning.

A shift beside him. The faint pull of fabric.

He opened his eyes.

Eren.

There.

Not startling. Not strange.

Expected.

Levi blinked once, then again. The light was soft—gray, early. Eren lay on his side, eyes open, watching him with a quiet gaze that didn’t ask anything.

Levi didn’t flinch. Didn’t brace.

He just breathed. Turned his head slightly.

“You been staring long?” he asked, voice low, rough with sleep.

Eren’s lips curved, barely. “Not long. You looked peaceful.”

Levi huffed, but it wasn’t sharp. “Don’t get used to it.”

He sat up, the blanket slipping down his chest. Eren didn’t move, just watched him with that same quiet ease. Levi stood, gathered his clothes for the day, and padded toward the bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind him. Steam from last night’s bath still lingered faintly. Levi set his clothes down, splashed water on his face, and began his usual routine.

A soft knock interrupted the silence.

“Levi?” Eren’s voice, muffled but clear. “Mind if I brush my teeth too?”

Levi paused, toothbrush halfway to his mouth. 

It wasn’t routine. But something in Eren’s voice—quiet, unassuming—made it feel okay.

He opened the door.

Eren stepped in, barefoot, hair tousled, still in his sleeping clothes. No ceremony. No hesitation. Just a quiet ask to share space.

They moved around each other easily—Levi rinsing, Eren squeezing paste onto his brush. For a few minutes, there was only the sound of water and soft motions. Mundane. Domestic. Intimate in its simplicity.

Levi glanced at the mirror, then at the corners of the room. “This place could use a proper clean.”

Eren nodded, mouth full of foam. “Yeah. Let’s do that today. Feels right.”

Levi met his eyes in the mirror. There was something about the way Eren said it—like they’d always done this. Like it was normal.

And maybe, Levi thought, it could be.

They’d had breakfast—quiet, simple. Eggs, toast, tea. Eren had fed the animals while Levi checked the garden beds. A few words exchanged. A few glances held. Nothing dramatic. Just easy.

Then, the bathroom.

Levi stood in the doorway, surveying the space like a commander assessing terrain. “We’ll do this properly,” he said. “Not just a wipe-down. Full clean.”

Eren nodded, rolling up his sleeves. “Got it. What’s the plan?”

Levi gestured to the shelf beside the basin. “Everything’s labeled. Vinegar mix for the tiles. Soapstone polish for the tub. Linseed oil for the wood trim. Don’t mix them. And don’t use the vinegar on the metal fixtures unless you want them to corrode.”

Eren raised a brow. “You’ve got a whole system.”

“I lived in filth long enough to know what it does to you. Clean space, clean mind. Or at least less of a headache.”

Eren didn’t argue. He picked up the vinegar bottle, sniffed it, winced. “Smells like it could kill a man.”

“Only the grime. You’ll survive.”

They divided tasks. Levi took the basin and fixtures—his own methodical rhythm, precise and practiced. Eren was assigned the tub and tiles. Levi watched him for a moment, noting the grip on the brush, the angle of his strokes.

“Not bad,” Levi said. “But go with the grain on the stone. You’re scrubbing against it.”

Eren adjusted, glancing Levi’s way. “Better?”

Levi nodded. “Better.”

They worked in tandem. The room filled with the scent of soap and vinegar, the soft scrape of bristles, the occasional splash of water. Levi moved with quiet efficiency, his focus absolute. Eren stole glances—watching the way Levi’s hands moved, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. There was something oddly satisfying about it. Grounded. Real.

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” Eren asked, half-teasing.

Levi didn’t look up. “I enjoy not living in a cesspool. That’s different.”

“But you do enjoy it. The order. The control.”

Levi paused, then smirked faintly. “Maybe.”

Eren returned to the tub, scrubbing the inner curve. “Do you ever actually use this? Or is it just for show?”

Levi glanced over. “I use it. Not often. I prefer showers. Quicker.”

“Shame. I wouldn’t mind trying it. Looks like it could be nice.”

Levi’s hand stilled.

Just for a second.

Then he resumed wiping the mirror, slower now.

His mind flickered—unbidden, unwelcome, vivid.

A flash.

Eren in the tub. Steam rising. Skin flushed. Head tilted back, eyes half-lidded. Levi beside him, sleeves rolled, hand trailing water across a shoulder. The sound of breath. The echo of laughter. The curve of a smile.

Gone.

Levi blinked hard, grounding himself in the present. The mirror. The cloth. The scent of vinegar.

He cleared his throat. “If you do try it, rinse it after. Soap scum builds fast.”

Eren looked up, catching something in Levi’s tone. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Levi snorted. “You’d know.”

Eren shifted to the tiles, kneeling with the brush, working in slow, steady circles. Levi watched for a moment, then stepped back.

He hesitated—then spoke, more openly than usual.

“I used to do that part,” he said. “Takes pressure. Consistency. Knees don’t like it much these days.”

Eren glanced up, not pitying—just listening.

Levi continued, voice low but steady. “There was a time I’d have pushed through. Or refused help. Thought it meant weakness.”

He hadn’t planned to say it. But something about the quiet—the rhythm of shared labor, the lack of pretense—made it easier. Eren didn’t demand vulnerability. He encouraged it in small ways.

“But we talked about that. That day.” Levi’s eyes flicked to the floor, then back to Eren. “You said something about not needing to keep the scales even. That it’s not about tallying who does what.”

Eren nodded. “I meant it.”

“I know.” Levi’s gaze lingered. “So I’m letting you do the tiles. Not because I can’t. But because I don’t need to prove anything anymore.”

Eren smiled, soft and sure. “Good. Because I’m getting pretty good at this.”

Levi snorted. “Don’t get cocky. You missed a spot.”

Eren rolled his eyes dramatically, all for show, but made sure to cover that part.

They finished in silence, the kind that didn’t press. Levi checked Eren’s work, offered a few quiet corrections. Eren took them without protest, adjusting his grip, refining his strokes.

At one point, their hands brushed near the basin. Neither pulled away.

Just a glance. A shared breath.

Then back to work.

When they stepped out, the bathroom gleamed. Levi looked satisfied. Eren looked quietly proud.

“Not bad,” Levi said.

“High praise,” Eren replied.

Levi didn’t smile, but something in his eyes softened. “You’re learning.”

The days had settled into a rhythm.

Quiet mornings. Shared chores. Evenings spent reading or walking the perimeter. The routines hadn’t changed much—but something in the undertone had. Levi felt it in the way Eren lingered near him, even when they weren’t speaking. In the way their fingers brushed more often. In the way sleep came easier now, with Eren’s breath steady beside him.

He didn’t dread bedtime anymore.

Not even the closeness. Not even the warmth.

Though he suspected, with summer creeping in, the cuddling might need renegotiation. Eren radiated heat like a furnace. Levi didn’t mind that most nights—but he wasn’t about to roast alive for the sake of intimacy.

Still. For now, it was fine.

This morning, Levi had started breakfast while Eren tended to the animals. Something different—buckwheat flour, eggs, a bit of sugar. 

The spoon scraped against the ceramic bowl in a slow, steady rhythm. Levi liked the sound—soft, repetitive, grounding. The batter was thickening, buckwheat and honey folding into something new. He wasn’t sure what to call it. Flat cakes, maybe. The name was in the shape.

The scent of flour and sugar hung in the air, mingling with the faint chill of morning. The stove ticked quietly behind him, waiting.

He heard the door open before he saw Eren. Footsteps—light, familiar. Then the soft thud of a jug being set down beside him.

“Here,” Eren said. “As requested.”

Levi nodded, not looking up. “Thanks.”

Eren didn’t move away.